I: The Old Geezer’s Lament
“I grow old... I grow old...
I shall wear the bottoms of my trousers rolled.”
— T.S. Eliot, The Lovesong of J. Alfred Prufrock
I’m old... I’m old...
Rust bucket and mold.
Spammed, scammed
and jack-rolled.
Because I’m old. Dammit, I’m old.
I’m old... I’m old...
Rust bucket and mold.
My brain’s gone to pot.
My body is shot.
Because I’m old. Dammit, I’m old.
I’m old... I’m old...
Rust bucket and mold.
Screwed, blued and tattooed,
but don’t think me to be rude.
Because I’m old. Dammit, I’m old
I’m old... I’m old...
Rust bucket and mold.
I’ll retire to a cave;
next stop is the grave.
Because I’m old. Dammit, I’m old.
I’m old... I’m old...
Rust bucket and mold.
To hell with it all.
Crack open a bottle,
and let’s have a ball.
Because I’m old. Dammit, I’m old.
II: On The Shore
We watch dark clouds gathering on the shore.
The rains are surging inland from over the sea.
The storms we’ve known from years before,
that drowned our world in discord and misery.
We burrow in safe spaces, retreating from harm.
Huddled together we seek shelter from strife.
Till someone sounds the dreaded alarm.
Cast off your illusions. There is no safety in life.
We have no peace; no place to hide. We’re lost.
The angel of death comes forth. A war horse he rides
through blue-green skies, blood-hued and tempest-tossed.
Great waves roll in. Shorelines vanish beneath the tides.
Love might save us yet, but it can cost us dear,
when we hate what we’ve loved and loved what we fear.
III: All is Flux
All is flux, nothing is stationary.
All is flux, nothing stays still.
All flows, nothing stays.
— Heraclitus
We are all in the process
of coming and going,
mostly not caring or knowing
that time is flowing.
Much to our sorrow,
we are here today
and gone tomorrow.
I’d like to borrow time
from a generous friend
who has some to spare
and is willing to lend.
We’re caught in the flux
of time’s roiling stream.
The current is swift;
it rolls on in an endless dream.
While the stream is still running,
I’ll get my ducks in a row.
One ought to clean one’s balance sheet,
before we pass with the flow.
On the other hand,
perhaps I’ll wait
to clean my slate.
No need to hurry.
No time to worry.
Too soon we are gone,
we’re not coming back,
and to paraphrase Shakespeare,
we won’t leave a rack.
