Old Men Never Die

One old man, two, three and four
Too many dysfunctional balls raise the snore
Like a whore you are selling your stories
For the cheapest buyers to the worshipers of boobies

Surely, you did this and you did that
Those are ancient history, my old dingbat
Your funny accomplishments imply nada
Nada, old men, nada—it’s only building up dilemma

For we know not the steps back, nor those forward
Like a drunkard, it’s only one-way homeward
Old men, die, you die and give us some space
No one cares what you did in 1980; get your chaise

History’s death. Conscience’s death. Society’s dead.
Take a long breath. And die a peaceful death.
Euthanasia. India. Coma. Burma. Gonorrhoea.
Enigma. Et cetera. It’s all messed up.

Seven Ages: first puking and mewling
Then very pissed-off with your schooling
Then fucks, and then fights
Next judging chaps’ rights
Then sitting in slippers: then drooling.



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