EVEN KNOCKOUT ROSES GO DOWN AT THE COUNT OF TEN
No flower blooms forever,
even the sun’s light is doomed.
Supply of oil is limited,
cars will soon run out of gas.
Beauty eventually fades,
only love made out of stone
lasts until the end of time.
I try to drop my mask of worry.
Old age slows you down—
arms and legs don’t listen.
I breathe like my father.
There’s no more tomorrow.
Patch it up, pack it in.
Stop busting your chops.
Cash in your chips,
you no longer can win.
Fold your cards. It’s time.
I hear a silent voice
bouncing off the sun,
moon and every star
with my name on it,
reminding me to make
the most of every moment.
I buy a tricycle, bike to a gym
and meet with my Irish beauty
trainer for every day remaining.
I delisciously fall asleep at night
humming my favorite love songs.