Basil Ransome-Davies Those mornings festering in your pit; Those idle afternoons; Those dentures with a perfect fit; Those hours in Wetherspoons… A whole utopic universe Unfolds when you are old, And you may mutter, groan and curse, But really you’ve struck gold. To profit from it just behave As helpless or insane (For instance, gibber, drool and wave Your walking stick or cane.) Senescence is a happy fate; You never have to rough it. Manipulate, manipulate, Like Daleks till you snuff it.
John Whitworth Olden I may be. Still I’m hale. I like to read the Daily Mail. It keeps me sharp and up-to-date. It tells me of affairs of state, And on the state I meditate: I am a wise old fellow.
I potter in a world of prose; grandchildren tell me how it goes. They drink and disco at the club; I soak for hours in the tub, Careen my carcass, scrub-a-dub: I am a hale old fellow.
I mutter when I do not shout; in welly boots I splash about; I walk on rainy afternoons; I dine on cauliflower and prunes, And never mess my pantaloons: I am a clean old fellow.
A television haruspex; I like the violence, hate the sex; I comb the Oxfam shops for togs; the country’s going to the dogs, I chart it all in monologues: I am a stern old fellow.
A world of dew. And yet. And yet a world not easy to forget; I cannot let it pass me by; I stop and look it in the eye; And, as you see, I versify: I am a game old fellow.
No matter what state it is in after years of indulgence and sin, though wrinkled and sagging from excess of lagging, I’m happy at last in my skin.
Martin Parker Of regrets now I have almost none. It’s a time to relax and have fun, since I learned in my youth that the Struggle for Truth I’d been fighting for cannot be won.
I’m at ease with new freedom from lust for each trimly honed waistline and bust. And I’m long-since resigned every time that I find that it won’t and I can’t — even just!
And I’ve really no cause to complain, as my time dribbles on down life’s drain, since my funeral’s paid for and what death is made for is starting life over again.
Saga-louts, we hit the towns With bold tattoos on balding crowns, Sink seventeen or eighteen rounds Of scalding tea.
G.S. Roper With custom zimmers, sticks and truss, We cause a loud, unholy fuss Inside the downstairs of the bus We ride for free.
With new streaks in our purple rinse, Exchanging recipes for mince, Our memories may make you wince And bitterly.
Our age can be our alibi: ‘A senior moment’, so we lie. It always works, so don’t you try To turn your key.
Fiona Pitt-Kethley Do not go gentle into that good night. At least beat up a few before you go. A Shaolin monk can be a fearsome sight. White hairs and ageing joints don´t stop the flow. Years of Kung Fu have helped him do it right, A little violence gives a youthful glow. Marquess of Queensberry rules or dirty fight? Who cares? Who dares will win. Is that not so? Forget all tolerance, do not take shite. Kick out against the pricks, put on a show. Older and wilder that´s my chosen path, Not Zimmer frames and lifts to take a bath.
Robert Schechter I’m bald now, though once I was curly. I’m old and I’m weak, but not surly. The source of my cheer? With each passing year It’s clear it’s too late to die early.
Your next challenge is to propose a new and ludicrous piece of legislation along with a justification for it (150 words max.). Please email entries to lucy@spectator.co.uk by 25 May.
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