The “Golden” Years
Today I am bored, oh what shall I do?
Chew garlic pearls, dye my hair blue?
I could call some old man (who is younger than I)
And tell him I'm going to bring a nice pie.
I'll laugh to myself while he stammers aghast;
Trying to think of excuses real fast!
When at this age, I already know
One cannot “think fast” - It's hard to think slow!
To the ‘Thrift Store’ I could make a whole lot of trips.
‘Til I find a full skirt that'll reach 'round my hips,
A chartreuse blouse with sequins galore
And a fuchsia boa that touches the floor.
I'll wear them to church and smile really sweet
At the people who choke and stare at their feet.
And watch out the corner of my eye
At them shaking their heads; “Poor dear”, they sigh.
Then I'll say to them boldly “Now don't I look pretty?”
And listen to them lie or try to be witty.
When I feel tired, I'll just take a nap
And hope that my dentures don't fall in my lap.
I'll probably snore and wheeze and mumble.
Why - off of the bench I might even tumble!
One day (sigh) your knees and ankles quit workin'
And all kinds of ailments around you come lurkin'
Old age, you have heard is supposed to be ‘golden’;
I'd say it's more like limburger, shriveled and moldin'!
May Baker Winkel © 1995