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


A secret that allows me

 To step out from the misery of aches and pains




 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

That’s right,

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..