Seventy
At sixty-one I had some fun,
But sixty-two made me feel blue.
Came sixty-three and feelin' free,
Sixty-four I found a bore.
At sixty-five I felt alive.
At sixty-six I learned new tricks
And sixty-seven ? Slice of heaven.
Sixty-eight was hard to rate,
But sixty-nine was feeling fine.
And now that I am seventy
I'm stymied for a rhyme.
I've tried searching the Internet
And spent a lot of time,
Exploring possibilities but
All are simply off the mark.
A seance with the Webster boys
Yielded only ghostly noise.
Growing apoplectic now,
Completely in the dark,
I'm agitated, inundated,
Perhaps mentally constipated,
By the many useless words,
Flitting through my mind like birds,
Who've eaten pyracantha fruit
And now no longer give a hoot.
I guess I'll have to give it up,
And rhyme it with serenity.
Or, might that be ... senility ?
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