On Turning Sixty
                         11 Sep '98

Sixty's a bummer. You're no longer a comer.
You're spent. You're bent. You've went.
Your face is craggy. Your butt is saggy.
You're slow, and what'smore, you're a bit of a bore,
And a tired old fool. You nod and you drool.
So take a pill, you're over the hill.
Your kids don't miss you. The ladies won't kiss you.
You're bald up there, but you've plenty of hair
In your ears and your nose where it's shaggy and gross.
You sit and write this really dumb stuff.
Your eyes fill with that "plum-tree gum" stuff.
Your sentences wander. They're unrelated.
You're fatter. You're fonder. You're constipated.
You can't reach goods on the upper shelf.
You fumble things. You hurt yourself.
Nobody cares. Your mother is dead.
Your temper flares. You wet the bed.
Your hard drive is down, and your volume is muted.
Your double "A" batteries aren't included.
You no longer look at the girls with big hooters.
You don't understand MTV or computers.
You try to believe you're as young as you were,
Then some middle-aged bastard calls you, "Sir."
You've lost that fire, but you can't retire
Cuz your hopes went to hell when the stock market fell.
So you labor away, day after day,
Wondering what the doctor will say
When he finally tells you he's found the disease
That's going to let you rest in peace.
When I get it, I hope I get it good!
Heart attack, stroke or tired blood.
I'm pretty much ready to throw in the towel.
Come hemorrhoids and tumors! Come nervous bowel!
You won't find me afraid to go,
Afraid of gout or Morton's toe.
So probe me and poke me. Find that lump.
Find carcinoma, widow's hump.
Find broken bones too thin to set,
Or that...what-da-ya-call-it...where you forget.
The sweet, red wine of life has soured.
I'd off myself, but I'm a coward,
And God is wrathful. He won't forgive.
Oh, lack-a-day!!
What's that you say?
Scotch and soda?
Okay, I'll live.