GOLDEN YEARS, MY AUNT FANNIE
(An Ode to Old)
(A Rage on Age)
(An…Aw, forget it)
When I was young, they said to me,
“Old” begins at sixty-three.
Or maybe just a slight bit more.
It may be more like sixty-four.
Or sixty-six or maybe eight.
You’ll see. You’ll really think it’s great!
And I believed what I had heard.
I believed each wise, wise word.
Golden years, they called them, then
And said for ladies and for men
That’s when fun, fun times begin
And every day is Win! Win! Win!
I closed my eyes and thought ahead
Of times between “today” and “dead”.
I thought how grand those days will be;
Years of gold, saved just for me!
And then THAT birthday came around
I looked for gold, but none was found.
I looked up high and way down low
And recalled words heard long ago.
They mentioned gold, I’m almost sure.
Yes, they did and if I were-
To think way back, I’m sure they told-
Me somewhere, I will find some gold.
I waited then, with spirits high
For gold to show up, by and by.
The gold that showed was not a lot.
Instead, I’ll tell you what I got.
For birthday number sixty-four
I got a tie and one thing more.
Hemorrhoids, I think, but I’ve-
Just started. Then came sixty-five.
I discovered naps, I guess.
Mandatory? Oh, my, yes.
An urge I learned I must obey
Just to finish off the day.
Another year and still they came.
Gifts too plentiful to name.
What were they now? I quite forget.
That’s no cause for me to fret.
If I think for just a bit
I will surely think of it.
My mind, it soon will surely cross.
Oh, Yeah! Encroaching memory loss!
And hearing seemed to get so small
That I could hardly hear at all.
When people spoke, it brought a tear.
Speech would simply disappear.
Their lips would move – I knew they spoke.
It seemed to be a “golden” joke.
Till someone said, “Here’s what you need,
“To fix the rut you’re in, indeed.”
“Hearing aids will fix this rut.”
I looked at him, and I said, “What?”
“HEARING AIDS”, he said again,
At decibels one hundred ten.
“Sounds good,” I said and off I went.
Tested, fitted, money spent,
I heard! But found to my dismay
Most folks don’t have much to say.
Vision stepped up next at bat.
Freeway signs? Where are they at?
They were here once. I know they were.
There! They whiz by in a blur.
Bifocals, said the doc with smiles
Will help you cover freeway miles.
Getting used to them takes time.
I said, “Thank you, Doc, and I’m-
Grateful that this problem’s past.
Then, I stood up WAY too fast,
Headed for what seemed a door,
Tripped and fell flat on the floor.
I got up and he said, “You
Will quickly learn to make them do.”
I am one who rarely whines.
At least, I see the freeway signs.
Joints used to be pain free.
Now, they’re all attacking me.
My knees don’t work; my thumbs are sore
And wait! There’s even much, much more.
Getting out of bed takes time.
Six A.M. alarm and I’m-
Standing by 6:10 A. M.
Ready for the next problem.
Arm pain, neck pain, vertigo,
Creaky elbows, lumbago,
Weight gain, gas, bones not dense,
Cholesterol and hypertense.
The only joy among these ills
Are those amazing, small, blue pills.
Modern miracles, they are
That keep me feeling up to par.
Why do I say, “Small, blue pills?”
Instead of using wordy frills?
‘Cause nothing west of old, Niagara
Ever rhymes with blue Viagra.
What gift waits for me next year?
A special gift that I’ll hold dear?
The ultimate that my way wends-
A gift-wrapped box of men’s “Depends”.
So take your “gold” and fold by nine
And put it where the moon don’t shine.
The irony is quite uncanny.
“Golden Years”? My Sweet Aunt Fannie!
THE END
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