The Bowler

Old trusty friend, I need you now
Hollow headed, hard of hearing
Snugly fitted to my brow
Rainy day no sign of clearing
Wear my share of cloudy tears
Studs you wear like diamond earrings
Faithful friend of many years
Solemn fellow, plain as night
Cradling my adult fears
Your midnight felt and satin might
Belie a certain icy trait
Shutting out the cold lamplight
You ride atop my prostrate gait
Sign of social piety
Enveloping my hackneyed pate
Removed for sipping cups of tea
But back amongst the old platoon
You camouflage my frailty