issue 34 > poetry > turco

I am feeling kind of weighty
Since I've finished turning eighty --
For I never should have gotten here at all.
Poets ought to die by thirty
(Though the thought makes me feel shirty)
And achieving forty made my being crawl,

For I acted like a jenny
And attempted a Jack Benny
By deciding to remain at thirty-nine,
But my wife said, "No, no, dearie,
That ploy's just a bit too dreary,
And it won't be pulled by any spouse of mine."

So I wandered on to fifty
Which I thought was none too nifty --
I was right, of course. It truly sucked a lot.
I could hear the hellhounds baying
In the distance; I was graying
And developing a lovely little pot

Which grew larger by the time
I could not think up a rhyme
That would carry me to sixty in the end.
I discovered to my sorrow
I had no good cause to borrow
Even consonances that I could not bend,

Such as "fixity," because
There was never any pause,
And my three-score years and ten were looming nigh.
I would soon use up time's ration --
I faced superannuation!
I achieved it, and I didn't even try!

That's why I am feeling weighty,
For I've finished turning eighty --
And I never should have gotten here at all.
Poets were interred by thirty
(Though that's young to get so dirty)
And achieving four-score makes my backbone crawl,