Rage?! Rage! you say? The way to face my old age?
Well maybe. Yeah, could be.
Yes, that’s it! The way to face my old age.
To “rage against the dying of the light”
And a special Kudo to Dylan for the oh so noble thought,
The courageous gesture of a brave soul.
But how? How am I to rage?
I, whose muscles have absconded
With all but an atrophied trace
Of my former strength.
So don’t even ask for a sip of my draft,
For the mug has grown too heavy;
So that if I reach to offer it
I shall shake and quiver
With the trembling effort
Of my protracted arm.
But what a pretty thought,
To rage against the dying of the light
And not go gentle into that good night.
But how can I rage
In this my old age?
How not to be ashamed
By the disintegration
Of my once proud memory?
Just rage, you say?
And make the valiant courageous gesture.
Alright, I will. I will rage against . .
But wait a minute.
What time is it? What day is it? Did I take my vitamins?
But O.K., maybe I can still string a few words together,
Create a verbal corral,
And herd together a flock of words
Into a rhapsodit harmony,
Where words do not assault one another
Or abuse the scholar’s sensitivity.
But how dare I rage with words?
I? Whose own aural devices
So fatigued with age
Hover on the edge
Of utter disability.
But oh no, I am not giving up,
For I have found
THE MAGIC KEY
A secret that allows me
To step out from the misery of aches and pains
THE MAGIC KEY
And I will take it by the hand,
Take humor by the hand,
And step out from the misery of my excessive age.
Oh yeah, I’ll piggy back on that merry glee,
And ride my daunting steed
To invade the doomy nooks
and gloomy crannies
Of my over done life
Embrace it all
To engage jocularity
And dance with frivolity
To fornicate with felicity
And marry bufoonery
I’ll laugh my way right through the dark door
And so what I can’t do rage.
No, not in this, my over ripe age
But . . . . . . . So . . . . . . . What?!
My salvation is to laugh,
Just keep myself I stitches
Even when I have shat my britches..