Being Old | Poetry

poetry being old

By Julie Wells, submitted by John Scott, Blackpool

I don’t like being old
The problem is, you see,
This doddery old lady
It isn’t really me.

I never was a beauty
Not graceful, tall and lean
But then again not ugly
Just somewhere in between.

My eyes not large and lustrous
Just a pretty shade of blue
Could see to read and sew or knit
See all there was to view.

My legs were short and sturdy,
Not worth a second glance,
But they carried me along the years
And led a merry dance.

My figure, now where do we start?
Best not to dwell on that.
I liked to call it curvy
But now it’s simply fat.

Now I look into the mirror
Is that Mum that I can see?
Hell, it’s more like Grandma
And she was 93.

I’ve kept my sense of humour,
It has helped in times of stress
To try to see a funny side
In what could be a mess.

So when I reach those pearly gates
And say ‘please let me in,’
‘No, b****r off,’ St Peter says,
You’ve led a life of sin.’

And so I’ll try the other place
I know I’ll find some buddies.
Who wants to be in Heaven
With a lot of fuddy duddies?

I try to look on the bright side
At least I won’t be cold,
I’m sure I’ll have a hell of a time
And it’s better than being old

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