64’s an unpoetic age
to pen, for plaudits, on this splintered stage,
when bones are aching and there’s need for rest,
in dreamless sleep, on days when you’re depressed.
64’s not old, but it’s not young!
Our senile sonnets, they should stay unsung!
An aging poet’s after all a fool,
a tosser and an obsolescent tool.
64’s a number, so they say;
the old are growing younger day by day!
But I don\'t buy that patronising crap,
when every afternoon I need to nap!
64’s the age to start to think
of making out your will, with borrowed ink,
from poems, which are best left there to lie,
like sleeping dog or cocooned butterfly.