50. Soon to be 51.
The year
Is here
And soon gone.
I cough in the early morning.
A warning?
Probably not,
But soon the year will be gone
And I shall reach the age of 51,
How many more have I got?
Young women
Will still
Laugh at my humour,
But grinning
Is not sinning
And ’tis no rumour
That I grow old.
Gold
May, they say
Buy
Much more than a smile
From a pretty maid
But the eye
Of lust
Must turn to dust
Once our part is played.
I kiss
And partake
In bliss,
Then wake
To my greying head
And an empty bed.
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
