When I am old, Not if, but when, ailments will derail not end, laments will fail not to upend my later years which I will spend, alone, when I am old, alone - what is the male kind of crone? old lonely men dress for court on their own, nothing suggests I will not be alone when I'm old.
When I am old, There will be no more lions Only in prisons Product of aeons of bestial poems never told Fire that does not rage is cold Cold flames are the tongues that sing dying There's no point in lying about being old men dress for the mall in the morning nothing suggests I will not be forlorn when I'm old
Not if, ifs and buts, but whens, I'll take a wood load at roughly ten, measure the hours by some Bushells blend, read the papers from start to end alone, when I am old, alone - what is the male kind of crone? I'll give the obituary special attention Which of my neighbours has earned a mention
When I am old There will be no more whaling Oh you cannot go whaling When there are no more whales in the tepid sea my instincts have always been dull Not that I ever listened at all If I lay in a burning bed I waited for the rain to fall Old men see what they're leaving behind and thank small mercies for going blind
When I am old I will have no companion No mouser no spaniel when all I could do is to leave them behind No spark to depend on my dithering lick Sputtering sickly at candle's end No love to address No missives to pen When I am old I'll take heroin.