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Growing Old

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Growing Old

The memory is shot
Hands constantly shake
Am I losing the plot?
My joints always ache.
I've lost most of my teeth
And all of my hair
What lies underneath
That oft vacant stare?

A distant daydream
Of fond souvenirs
Or deaf as I seem
Just wax in my ears.
It's not by design
I accumulate ills.
I've turned infantine
On tablets and pills.

Lotions and potions
Towel and pad
Even my motions
Examined, how sad.  

And as for the sex
Of those halcyon days
I'll just get my specs
And read what it says
On this bottle I've got
The writing's so small
What a load of old rot
Viagra cures all.


By Hobbo

A contemporary poet with a Yorkshire sense of humour

4 replies on “Growing Old”

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