GOLDEN YEARS MY ASS
I’m old and tired,
And falling apart.
My engine’s slow to turnover,
I’m getting hard to start.
Sometimes I walk with a limp.
I gimp here and there.
I’ve got parts breaking down,
That are beyond repair.
I’m losing my hearing.
I’m losing my sight.
I nap all day,
And pee all night.
I hurt in places that never hurt before,
From my head to my toes.
I’m so decrepit you wouldn’t want to see me.
Unless I was wearing clothes.
I’ve lost an inch in height.
The top of my head is bare.
It wouldn’t be so bad,
If it wasn’t for the glare.
My bones are getting brittle.
My muscles have begun to shrink.
Sometimes I’m a little forgetful,
And it’s probably worse than I think.
My memory is fading,
The past keeps slipping away.
It’s getting harder to recall,
What happened back in the day.
Worn out, and worse for the wear,
I’m not aging well.
I’ve become a grumpy old man,
And you can go to hell.
Michael D. Schafer
© January 28, 2020
Back to your poem. From my recollection, comics like George Burns and Bob Hope die laughing at a ripe old age, with young girls hanging around keeping their joints well oiled and their libidos high. You're in the right profession like Samuel Clemens and and you too could hit it big after age 69.
Ron