Mirror, mirror, on the wall
who’s the fairest of them all?
Pretty sure it isn’t me,
tell me, mirror, what you see.
Baggy eyes and saggy neck.
Goodness! I’ve become a wreck!
Mirror, mirror, on the floor
look again and tell me more.
Ankles which were once so slender
need to be returned to sender.
Legs like pit props, solid lumps,
don’t belong on me, but frumps.
Mirror, mirror, can’t you lie?
Try to be a little sly?
Give me back what I had once:
thicker hair to hide my bonce.
No? I don’t know why I look.
Out with mirrors. Where’s my book?
My eyes don’t look right, never did.
they’re not on the level you see.
One’s higher than the other but
that’s not the worst for me.
strabismus, vertical, too
then presbyopia came along
just to enhance the view.
They don’t see far, they don’t see close,
or look in the same direction.
I do have spectacles of course
to offer some correction.
But when I’m tired and take those off
my eyes have a mind of their own;
they flatly refuse to cooperate.
I’m in a twilight zone.
Usually I crack the whip
and they line up nice and neatly
but clearly sometimes it’s too much work;
they deviate completely.
I must admit it’s quite a lark,
seeing in two directions.
How boring life must be for those
with no such imperfections.
Why do these old hands ache so much
to reach, to stroke, to hold, to touch?
Why must they make my needs so plain?
My hands are driving me insane.
Though now adorned with jewelled rings
they long for old familiar things:
for flesh and muscle, firm and hard,
across which, once, they'd promenade.
I can, of course, caress the cat
although there's not much fun in that.
She isn't keen on being squeezed;
my hands just wind up feeling teased.
They yearn to feel again the thrill
of using, once again, their skill
to make a lover so inflamed
that one might almost feel ashamed.
Such skills I've had and have them yet
though currently they pose no threat;
and so I dream as here I nap,
my hands, frustrated, in my lap.
CS © 2005
I'm aging now, or so I'm told
but they're selling me a pup!
How can I be growing old
when I haven't yet grown up?
I refuse to be a "wrinkly",
a boring sad old fart.
Age is just a state of mind;
I'm still a kid at heart:
Open minded, curious,
shy but keen to learn,
impatient to see what lies
round every twist and turn.
And what about maturity?
Is it to do with years
or dealing with relationships,
handling hopes and fears?
I am happy to mature then
if that's what it's about,
as long as they let me have some fun
and run around and shout,
make fervent love in the afternoon
and dance to the radio.
I'm quite prepared to be old one day
but I've still a long way to go.
I laugh at my condition,
it's the only thing to do;
there's no point getting morbid.
I've spent enough time blue.
But sometimes - only sometimes -
it gets a little scary;
I wonder what the future holds,
what traps for the unwary.
Will it get so bad that I
can't manage all alone
and end up vegetating in some
dreadful old folk's home?
I guess it has some perks though:
all those lonely men!
Just think of all the fun I'd have
attracting lovers then.
Can you just imagine them
fighting lovers duels
(on canes d'you think or zimmer frames?)
and showering me with jewels?
Of course it could be single sex
Oh God! please spare me that!
I wouldn't last a week surrounded
by the endless chat.
I'd have to have some visitors
and sneak them in to this:
the only red light old folks home.
Just knock and ask for Chris.
Aging dancers don't retire
they simply dance much slower.
I haven't lost that inner fire
it's there, but burning lower.
I don't "do" frantic any more
I'm best at slow and sensual;
just clear a space there on the floor,
I'll show you I'm accentual.
Rock for me has had it's day
along with twist and shout;
I'll show you in a different way
just what it's all about.
Put on a mean and moody song
a beat that's slow and steady
then lead me out where I belong
and just make sure you're ready!
© CS 2002