My Poetry. Old age.

Why must we grow old and so terribly vain?
Complaining bitterly about the economy?
And muttering constantly about the ceaseless rain?
Suffer from aching joints that creak and pop,
hardly able to shamble around the shop,
trying desperately not to stumble on air,
and convinced that no one hears the things we swear!

Still running after the grandchildren (at a walking pace),
and constantly bailing out our own adult kids.
Vacuuming the carpets with surgical precision,
and searching eternally for the pots without their lids!
Having to mind every tiny, innocent step,
just in case the floor decides to rise up and make you fall.
Our childhood memories are perfectly vivid, of course,
but what we ate for lunch is impossible to recall.

Standing in long, endless lines,
for money that's supposedly due.
Worrying about what's on the television,
and sometimes just feeling generally blue!
Sleeping soundly within three minutes
of sitting down on any available chair,
then wondering aloud why we're so ridiculously old,
and if anyone, anywhere, actually still cares!

But old age truly has its fantastic perks,
I can name a dignified, precious few:
Sophistication, elegance, and (most importantly),
the remarkable, newfound ability to chew!
Honour and respect are suddenly yours to command,
you can spoil the grandchildren without consequence,
and educate young people by playing them old records,
then spontaneously bursting into a wild, awkward dance!

© William Sinclair Manson 2025