Help Crossing the Road
It’s Raging against the dying of the light
One could grow old, waiting
for age to force us to submission.
Permission to break ranks, then?
To say thanks, but no thanks
to pipe and slippers,
manual clippers to the nape,
and heavy drapes to cut the draught.
Daft you say, and may be right.
But we won’t trundle into night.
Nor stop to grace an easy-clean commode.
But hit the road to greener grass,
and pass beyond the gaze
of hard-faced politicians who’d
rudely wait to put us in their boxes.
A pox upon these middling actuarians.
Their piddling Lions and Old Rotarians.
The sad belief that poor relief
and pensions, all take their toll
on never-ending dividends.
It tends to make me swear,
Old age. But worse, we curse
the niggards and the witless,
who fashion us as burdens,
and rob us of potential.