Children yakking screeching in the park,
I used to hate it grating my youngish ear.
HiFi stereo booming hellishly blaring
I would for hours sit and resolutely hear.
Now my deafened ears and aged heart
Delight in children’s laughs and shrieks.
My pricey audio gear I never go near.
At 86 I confess I suffer a particularly pernicious form
Of senile dementia, the dreaded Alzheimer,
An anomalous form of it, mercifully not the norm.
I’m an obsessively dreadfully foul old rhymer.
SNOMED CODE 110478008
In search of a Medicare diagnosis
For my asthenia, cachexia, and kyphosis
I resort to that most effective of all modalities:
The mirror. Hmm... Age-related maladies.
EULOGY FOR A PLATYSMA
In old age when my memory lapses
And everything else collapses,
Gone is every shred of charisma.
Worst of all, the collapse of my platysma.
FOR MY FRIEND WARREN L. JOHNS ON OUR TURNING 80
The Birthday Boys of nineteen twenty nine,
Warren L. Johns and S. Wesley Kime,
Invite you witness their great conversion
From youth to Octogenarian.
A conjoined bash for two old geezers,
Come and see two candle-challenged wheezers,
Once handsome and promising youth
Now the both just long of tooth.
Excessive ear wax, Ex-lax, Ducolax and Flomax;
Atheromatous plaques, dewlaps lax;
Memory out of whack, how to whack estate tax --
These are now our main remaining facts.
We're the boys of twenty nine, still on stage, still on,
The double Ws, W Kime and W Johns,
At dentures, toupees, canes and walkers scoff.
Hey, you little whippersnappers, don't wave us off.
B.D. RHYME FOR AN OLD GEEZER
I do deny that Shelly is my muse.
Ogden Nash, he surely is, forsoothz,
So your BD is the seventy-fifth,
Got to be to rhyme with plinth,
Your rightful, honored throne,
Not a coffin dead to apps and i-phone.
NOW I'LL BLOW THE CANDLES OUT
Today I hereby duly celebrate
That my father was no celibate.
BETTER ASTRAY THAN AWAY
Sixty years ago my hair lay
Astray and every which way.
Put, the roots would never stay
Despite the gallons of collagen hair spray.
Forty years ago today
I first observed my hair going gray.
As of today it's mostly gone away.
I'll celebrate with an e-bay toupee.
PERCHANCE TO...PUFF PUFF
(Or, puffing to the fluffy pillow)
It’s only eight.
At my age the end of day,
So up the stairs I wend my way,
Perchance to sleep.
SINS OF THE PARENTS
Children will forever blame their parents
For all their tics, quirks, and sad impairments.
To their shrink, my dad was mean.
To their doc, my mom’s bad genes.
To the judge, I’m the victim, not the criminal.
To God, condemn them, my sin's congenital.
It’s his curious way to honor
The fifth commandment, thy parents must thou honor,
That the child in court, or on the couch, attributes
To them alone his dishonorable attributes.
I once was thought an over-achiever.
Now I'm just another older old geezer.
An old geezer of the tribe of Kime
Spent his final allotted golden year
Indulging execrable rhyme upon rhyme.
Hardly poetic wine, just near beer.
Generations ago, puffing a pipe
Was the standard academic prop,
Vital to the bearded learned phenotype.
No matter how nonplussed
And discombulated the professor got,
He simply calmly silently puffed.
As a nerd my image was not hip,
Spectacles dandling from my lip.
NOTHING TO SHOW FOR IT
When young men exercise,
Their glutes and biceps bulge with bigness.
But we old men may sweat all day at LA Fitness,
And not a single parameter has budged a bit,
Not a blessed thing to show for it,
Except, puff-puff, we’re still alive.
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