...in honor of none other than the Wiseass Jooette herownself, the esteemed Erica Sherman.
Image courtesy of Eric.
[Photoshopping by Yours Truly.]
In honor of this, her most recent birthday, Erica has elected to try a more mature hairstyle. Reasonable, considering how pruned up she’s getting. I mean, she’s - what? - 32? Jeezum Crow, break out the Polident! Mix that girl a Pomegranate Pile Driver!
But that New ’Do is farookin’ gorgeous - don’tcha t’ink?
Anyway, the above vision of Hirsute Loveliness has inspired me to dust off this most appropriate selection from the Elisson Poetry Archives. Enjoy.
Time Marches On
or
It Sure Beats the Alternative
It’s hell, they say, when you get old.
Your toenails all are caked with mold,
Or maybe other kinds of fungus.
It’s hard to breathe with ancient lungus.
All bloodshot are your rheumy eyes,
All weak and stringy are your thighs.
Your pancreas is stiff and sore,
And buttocks droop towards the floor.
With exercise, your muscles ache,
It feels like all your bones will break.
You day by day get soft and flabby,
Your disposition loutish, crabby.
Digestion, once a simple task,
Becomes a chore (and please, don’t ask.)
Shoulder joints all get bursitis.
Your bladder wakes you up at nightis.
Your backbone gives you many pains.
Increasingly sieve-like grow your brains,
Until you cannot keep in mind
that “this is your elbow, that’s your behind”:
Getting old, it is not kind.
But whene’er these thoughts go thro’ my head,
I think: “It sure beats being dead.”
Image courtesy of Eric.
[Photoshopping by Yours Truly.]
In honor of this, her most recent birthday, Erica has elected to try a more mature hairstyle. Reasonable, considering how pruned up she’s getting. I mean, she’s - what? - 32? Jeezum Crow, break out the Polident! Mix that girl a Pomegranate Pile Driver!
But that New ’Do is farookin’ gorgeous - don’tcha t’ink?
Anyway, the above vision of Hirsute Loveliness has inspired me to dust off this most appropriate selection from the Elisson Poetry Archives. Enjoy.
Time Marches On
or
It Sure Beats the Alternative
It’s hell, they say, when you get old.
Your toenails all are caked with mold,
Or maybe other kinds of fungus.
It’s hard to breathe with ancient lungus.
All bloodshot are your rheumy eyes,
All weak and stringy are your thighs.
Your pancreas is stiff and sore,
And buttocks droop towards the floor.
With exercise, your muscles ache,
It feels like all your bones will break.
You day by day get soft and flabby,
Your disposition loutish, crabby.
Digestion, once a simple task,
Becomes a chore (and please, don’t ask.)
Shoulder joints all get bursitis.
Your bladder wakes you up at nightis.
Your backbone gives you many pains.
Increasingly sieve-like grow your brains,
Until you cannot keep in mind
that “this is your elbow, that’s your behind”:
Getting old, it is not kind.
But whene’er these thoughts go thro’ my head,
I think: “It sure beats being dead.”
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