Getting on a bit.

When you're over sixty,
Life can deal a rotten hand.
Liver spots and pitted skin.
No chance of getting tanned
For fear of melanoma.
Cancer on the inside
As well as on the out
is a fearful thing to think of,
A disease you cannot doubt.
Aches and pains beset you,
Your hair turns patchy grey,
You feel you've turned invisible
Even on a sunny day.
Backpacking in the Andes,
Canoeing down the Nile
Are not the hols you look for now,
They really aren't your style!
And yet a voice within me
Cries "I'm not really old!"
I want to go whitewater rafting,
Or climb up glaciers cold.
I'd love to learn to parachute
(though I have a fear of heights).
But "I'm afraid you are too old, dear.
Why don't you see the sights
From a coach with every comfort,
And a handy loo on board.
It suits our older ladies
who have problems "down below".
I think you'd find it better, dear,
more suited to your age.
Life is for the young ones
With strong and healthy bones,
And all their life ahead of them,
No ties, no fear, no moans!"
Oh well, I'll get my knitting
And settle in my chair,
And look through all the brochures
And search and find somewhere
I can be myself, and never care
What other people think.
I'll bulge out of my bikini,
And settle with a drink
Down by the turquoise water
Of an island lush and warm.
And a great big hat to shade my eyes,
And a notice by my chair -
"This is an eccentric English lady,
A type not often seen.
Don't go too close, and beware!
She's inclined to take her stick
And poke you in your parts,
Because she's a real character,
And she DOESN'T CARE A DAMN!!"

(Just thought I'd cheer myself up!)