Over The Hill.

A GLIMPSE OF ANNO DOMINI.
Old age is wrinkled skin and greying hair,
It's walking sticks, bus passes, pension books.
It's idleness and time to stand and stare,
It's having things, then finding they're not there,
It's losing things including youthful looks.
They say I tell the same old story till I bore,
I know I talk too much about the war,
Now I'm not allowed to lock the bathroom door.

I need my specs to read the headlines now.
My hearing's not as sharp as it once was.
My hair line's crept a long way from my brow,
Things break but bet your life I don't know how,
I know it's not my fault...but then who does?
My memory sometimes teases me and makes me doubt,
I often put my shirt on inside-out,
Missing waistcoat buttons say I'm getting stout.

Perhaps it's just degenerating brain,
This shaking hand, this stilted, stumbling gait,
Arthritis in the knees or sudden pain
Conveniently excuse a gravy stain,
Or make it quite impossible to wait.
Yet, I find advantages in such a ruse,
I leave my grubby bracers dangling loose
And find advancing years a fine excuse!

I like to help, and keep up with the news,
Sure footed once, I'm now inclined to fall.
This getting old is giving me the blues,
But once you're old you have the right to choose,
So when I choose, I do nothing at all.
It's my priority although it shocks
To have first pick out of the chocolate box,
Or wear red plimsolls with my purple socks.

I might forget what happened yesterday.
But I remember all my misspent youth.
They say I snore but that's just what they say,
I never go to sleep during the day,
And though they don't believe me it's the truth.
I yearn for strength, long to be fancy free;
I want to be the way I used to be
And then grow very old disgracefully?