Do Not Help The Aged
I’m elderly, ancient, approaching the stage
When I stick to the middle of roads, showing caution,
But the older I am, the more outbreaks of rage
Appear in my system in sheer disproportion –
The scythe may be poised and the knell may be rung,
But I’m out to murder the youthful or young.
The Pharaohs and Herod had nothing on me –
There’s a glint in my eye as I sail down the street.
I’m dressing to kill and if kids disagree,
I’ll turn them to jelly or quivering meat:
Watch out for the fogey in muffler and cap.
If you have a neck, get it ready to snap.
My beard may be white and my crown may be bald,
And I may need a stick or a motorised zimmer,
But I will not come when last orders are called
And stay out of the way when I switch on a strimmer.
Yes, officer, I may be pootling along,
But if I look harmless, you’re totally wrong.
Give me Wincarnis and feed me on Farley’s
Or park me in front of the day-time TV:
The world’s being run by some under-age charlies.
I know who’s right. It’s not you. It is me.
I’m driving at thirty? Be very suspicious:
On the way to the ambulance, see me turn vicious.
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