Much has been sung
Of women young
And middle-aged men who knew
Better, yet themselves flung
At the feet
Of maidens far from discreet …
So when I meet
Girls with high-heeled feet
I think with delight
Of the hot night,
Then sigh for that can not be,
For I am growing old you see …
They say
That when policemen look young, you are getting old.
I was told
By a lady yesterday,
In a conversational way
That she was born
In the year
I came to old London town
To work.
A jerk
Of recognition within.
Hopes abandoned
There will be no sin …
It is summer yet
The leaves can still be found
Strewing the ground.
Shall I regret
The gray hair
Where
There remains no trace of brown?
The longest day of the year
Will soon be here
Ere Autumn throws
Her clothes
All haphazard down.
I shall in beauty drown
For our little moon
Is gone too soon
While nature’s store
Remains as before.
I am told
That one is getting old
When policemen look younger than you.
I’m sure that’s true
But when girls say
In a friendly sort of way
That their dad has the same interests as you,
Then what is a guy to do
Other than smile and accept
That age
Has crept
Up on him like a thief in the bleak night
And that although he may, in the company of young women delight
He must
For the purposes of love or lust
Engage with women of a similar age
As no
Young ladies desire
A grey haired sire.
But oh!
If he have money it may be so …!
A myriad leaves fall down
Tis many a long day
Since the gray
Hair were brown
Skin, once perfect as plastic,
Now stretches like an elastic
Band.
Once men would rush to obey her every command.
Now at the mirror she does stand
Make up in hand
Expertly hiding
The lines dividing
Youth
From the truth
Of middle-age.
