Old Father Time, or whoever’s listening,
There's this chap with lots of things to say.
You see, he’s getting older and he’s got issues,
That won't be silenced one single more day.
So can you please tell him why his body
Doesn’t work quite like it once did?
And why so many things that used to get better
Are now permanent and he’ll never be rid?
He’s got pains in his back and his hand and his knee
That never used to be there before.
So in the morning he has to be careful,
Roll on his side first, before feet on the floor.
His back likes to surprise him
And thinks it’s a wonderful ruse,
To ping like he’s lifted a mountain
When all he’s done is tie up his shoes.
And can you please tell him, what’s the point -
The reason he’s started losing his hair?
And while we’re at it, can you cast some light on
Why he now vocalises when vacating a chair?
The generation above him are all dying out,
That buffer will soon be expired.
There was a time he thought he’d live forever
But now, half way done, he’s perpetually tired.
What happened, it only feels like yesterday,
When he could stay up and party all night.
And now after one small limoncello,
In the morning he feels like shite.
There was a game he used to play with his son,
Done with finesse and fatherly charm,
He’d shake his hand hard till the lad gave in and begged –
No more, the bugger could now break his arm.
He used to have skin, so soft and so smooth,
He’d turn heads when he entered a room.
Now when he looks in the mirror,
He’s got the complexion of dried up prunes.
And don’t get him started on eyesight,
Till 40 it was 20/20 all the way.
And if you talk to him about hearing?
He’ll catch maybe half of what you say.
When he considers the younger generations,
You won’t find him sitting on the fence:
‘Their music’s rubbish, their clothes are worse
And their language doesn’t make any sense!
They don’t use real words, they think it’s all text,
So they LOL and they IMO
Then they WTF, OMG, IDK
What the f*ck, oh my God, I don’t know…’
The world moves on, less and less with him,
No matter how hard he tries to keep up,
He’s too busy swapping ailment stories with friends
Like recently, when he had to pee in a cup…
He thought his problem was the ‘gentleman’s’ one –
(No, not the one solved with a single blue pill)
The one concerning a chap’s middle-aged gland
The one you don’t think of till you’re worried you’re ill.
But after his blood test and exam’ at the doctors,
‘Knees to your chest, Sir’ - fingers all covered in lube.
Turns out there was nothing to worry about,
Nothing wrong with that apparatus or tube.
But the Doctor’s diagnosis wasn’t over,
And this is what’s made him feel sadder -
There’s nothing wrong with his prostate,
But it turns out he’s got a shit bladder.
I mean, of course he has, he should have guessed,
Doc couldn’t just say that he’s well.
Because that’s not how it works when you’re middle-aged,
There’s always something unpleasant to tell.
And sadly, this is only the beginning,
At his age, this is only the start.
He could easily have several more decades left
To watch himself falling apart.
But his love and he have got a plan,
For when the first of them has to go,
It won’t make that darkest of days much brighter,
But in time it will soften the blow.
Their ethereal selves will transcend this place,
Leaving their worn out, corporeal forms in the hearse,
The first to go will board a discarnate space ship and wait
Till they can fly together, round the whole universe.
And finally it won’t make any difference -
The aches and pains that come and go with the weather -
Because what’ll remain of them is the stuff that stays young
And they’ll stay that way, holding hands, forever.
Now that’s a lovely dream he’s got in his head,
But there’s something he wants you to know -
He’s got so much to do and to think and to say,
He needs, please, lots more time before he's to go.
And if possible, let him grow old disgracefully,
But sound in body and (again) please, sound in head.
And, if possible, don’t let there be too many years
Of wearing Tena Men and peeing in bed.
Amen.
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