fish farmer

Getting Old – a Rhyme for Finite Extension

I’m getting old.

My hairs receding.
I wake up in the morning and my teeth are bleeding.
The skin on my hands is starting to wrinkle
And I always drip a bit when I’ve just had a tinkle.
Getting old.

My belly’s getting podgy,
My toenails are infected
And my knees are pretty dodgy.
I’ve started growing hairs from a mole on my cheek.
And my bowels haven’t moved for the best part of a week.
I’m getting old.

Can’t taste my food any more.
Can’t hear through one ear
And my balls are on the floor
I don’t go out ‘cos most my mates are dead
I have to take Viagra to stop me rolling out of bed.
I’m getting old.

I’ve lost my sense of smell.
Can’t sit for very long
Or my ankles start to swell.
I rarely see my family; I rarely get invited
I read dirty magazines, but I never get excited.
Getting old.

I’m older than my Dad.
My dinner gets delivered
And my neighbours think I’m mad.
I watch daytime television programmes all about ‘the Arts’
I don’t know how to change the channel. And I can’t control my farts.
I’m getting old.

Copyright Phil Walters

riddler

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