I've spent the better part of a decade running rampant. I never slept around you understand. The crevice too narrow and the pickings slim as a quid's worth of extra hot peperami sticks. Having said that -- whatever idea beseeched me was followed through to the hilt, to the hill and
over she goes.
In that time i've come face to face with myself many-a-time, each proving more shocking than the last. Each year a stranger figure whistles back and asks me "remember when." Soon i shall have to say that i do not. I don't recall. I can't and shan't wish to recount. For the pain is too deep and sudden and lost within the pages. There is now little chance of
going backwards for nothing remains as it was. That is the devastation of age. 

I've learned that i am not as reliable as i once was. I'm a fair weather promise. As it goes i'm sure i'll die chasing whatever the hell is at the foot of the bed. Dashing in an out like some little weasel on a moor. With never a solid penny to my name. 
If the vacancy sees itself empty, consider me. The burden of bodmin. 
The able crewman with the intelligence of a fox, quick as a whip, but sadly sagging at the neck; and a cold bill fold of moths. ☠