A poem about: Ronnie 50 years old. Works abroad (…

Ronnie 50 years old. Works abroad ( well says he works ,- more watches to and skives. Enjoys running- well he is a running twat and both running and being a twat comes naturally. Whether it’s running hill reps, sprints or intervals nothing seems to be an issue. Often hear Sandra and Diane say he is a dick.Often see him running round Ellon blinding you with his milk bottle legs. Always happy to lead a bakers run - canna beat a scone and god forbid if he gets a bigger scone than Diane.Ronnie likes to thinks he is encouraging you when he runs shouting come on push - poor neighbours must thinks someone is in labour!But the worst is during sprints cause you know - if you didn’t puke you didn’t work hard enough!!!So Ronnie the rocket! Likes to run fast - sometimes using a run with Lynne and Diane and Sandra as a warm up for park run. We have learned a few tips, don’t run on his shoulder - makes him faster!Gingers with a lack of hair run faster - aerodynamic! Always likes to run in the middle of the night of even a bit earlier if he gets his way!Here is wishing you a very happy 50th birthday Ronnie

In the twilight of fifty, Ronnie takes flight,
With milk-bottle legs in the soft morning light.
Abroad, he claims to work, or so he insists,
Yet often we find him in runner’s bliss.

A twat on the hills, a master of pace,
Intervals, sprints—his rhythm, a chase.
Sandra and Diane may roll their eyes,
Yet Ronnie's determined, with sweat he complies.

"Push on," he bellows, a coach in disguise,
Neighbors perplexed think it labor's cries.
And when sprinting, barfing's the norm,
It's all in the essence of Ronnie's storm.

Leader of runs for scones in his troupe,
Grabs the biggest, he's part of the loop.
A warmth in his joy, a tale of his whim,
A ginger so fast, with hair that seems slim.

Midnight or dawn, the road calls his name,
A parkrun ahead, his game is the same.
To Ronnie the Rocket, we toast, we cheer,
Happy 50th, my friend, let's gear up this year!

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In the twilight of fifty, Ronnie takes flight, With milk-bottle legs in the soft morning light. Abroad, he claims to work, or so he insists, Yet often we find him in runner’s bliss. A twat on the hills, a master of pace, Intervals, sprints—his rhythm, a chase. Sandra and Diane may roll their eyes, Yet Ronnie's determined, with sweat he complies. "Push on," he bellows, a coach in disguise, Neighbors perplexed think it labor's cries. And when sprinting, barfing's the norm, It's all in the essence of Ronnie's storm. Leader of runs for scones in his troupe, Grabs the biggest, he's part of the loop. A warmth in his joy, a tale of his whim, A ginger so fast, with hair that seems slim. Midnight or dawn, the road calls his name, A parkrun ahead, his game is the same. To Ronnie the Rocket, we toast, we cheer, Happy 50th, my friend, let's gear up this year!