cover the testiment

Under the umbrella sits a man with a sigh. He toggles his memories from 1983 to 1995. And he sees pictures of pelicans in grocery stores. Ha, that was a good year, 1994.
He sees a cat and a hound asleep under a tree. What a peaceful summer, 1993.
He can feel the strong wind and taste the cool dew. The ocean, the lawnmower, 1992.
He remembers the message: stay oot oof the sun! Lifeguard in old Glasgow, 1991.
Some joker put toothpaste on his glasses, all shiney. That darn stupid summer camp in 1990.
And the letter to his parents from the jail: I’m just fine. When really he wasn’t: 1989.
And the doctor said, Mister, you must lose the weight. That’s just what I thought, 1988.
And visiting Maryland in autumn is heaven. Of course it would be, 1987.
And when did his best friend get so drunk and sick? Oh yeah, on the cruise, 1986.
His old car, getting wrecked, so lucky to survive. That’s one big long headache, 1985.
And the graduation: as for school, well now there’s no more. That’s quite a big year, 1984.
All the other years also have things that he knows, but right now the man just wasn’t thinking of those.