Friday, 28 July 2017



                                        Bald and toothless, growing old,
                                        hard of hearing, bent and stooped;
                                        my limbs won't do a thing they're told,
                                        and in my boxers I've just pooped.  
                                        Although I creak when I get up
                                        and walking can be quite a grind,
                                        and through a straw my soup I sup,
                                        and cannot keep a thought in mind;
                                        I try to keep stiff upper lip,
                                        and not to let things get me down,
                                        but there's no firmness in my grip,
                                        and gravity gives me a frown.

                                        Oh, curse old age and all it brings,
                                        it doesn't come alone, it's true,
                                        I'd need a whole new set of springs,
                                        in order to keep up with you.
                                        I'm past my prime and on the heap,
                                        I've got a case of "old-age blues",
                                        recalling my last "lover's leap",
                                        it never would've made the news.
                                        I never had much luck with dames,
                                        they always went for other men,
                                        but lust no longer now inflames
                                        my passions past a count of ten.

                                        I'm yellow, wrinkled, cannot see,
                                        and fear the doctor when he calls;
                                        I'll doubtless fail my "M.O.T.",
                                        but must accept whate'er befalls.
                                        When old friends die and are despatched,
                                        it's not compassion that I lack;
                                        from funerals I stay detached,
                                        at my age, not worth coming back.
                                        So pity me, my life's near done;
                                        this battle I'm destined to lose,
                                        and listen to my words, my son -
                                        one day you'll sing the "old-age blues".

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