A miasma of misinformed mitochondria
were swimming in a pool of DNA.
Put on some suits, gadzooks, you’re
risking hypothermia, said a neutron
who was sitting far away.
It is no use, this is abuse, said a flagellum,
who just happened to be paddling by.
I challenge you all to achieve mitosis,
said a cell who was quite obviously high.
We are in the middle of an electoral play.
Romeo and Juliet have long since passed away.
Hillary and little Marco fell before the sword.
Lyin’ Ted and Lazy Jeb were just cast overboard.
Now the king is fighting off his own appointed men.
Bannon, Flynn and Manafort. The south will rise again.
He dreams it all, a wonder wall, across the southern border,
a monument to arrogance, an ode to law and order.
He twists his lies to alibis, he tortures truth to end.
He will be tried for all his sins. The devil is his friend.
Here’s your receipt for all the whippings you took
back in a former life, when you lived by the book.
Yes, it is hard to relive pained memories.
But harder yet is to walk on your knees.
The overseers’ undertakers overtook you at last.
Don’t let that change your life. It’s all in the past.
The fate that ruled you then has since been amended.
And to your soul a new end has been appended.
You’ve put some tough time in. Now much is owed.
Stand up and walk your path. You are unbowed.
And though the book has changed, it still needs rewriting.
You hold the pen and ink. Now come out fighting.
I’m opening my birthday cards, most of ’em from smart asses.
They got their points, my achin’ joints, I can’t see without glasses.
I can’t outrun the bus no more. No, and I hardly walk.
And people note my missing teeth whenever I do talk.
The doors to my brain’s filing cabinets often now get stuck.
I simply stare, lookin’ for words and then just say "No luck."
My wrinkles fight with wrinkles to find space upon my face.
My moves which onetime were so smooth are now devoid of grace.
I sometimes don’t remember things it’s said I might have said.
The hair grows from my ears and nose but not atop my head.
My body’s filling up with splotches, brown and white and red.
I read the obits every morning, make sure I’m not dead.
My words come out unfiltered, people say, "You can’t say that."
My strength is on vacation and I sleep more than my cat.
When I look in the mirror, I think, where’d that young guy go?
The parts are all lopsided, looking like a Picasso.
My thoughts oft stray to bygone days, back to ‘Remember When.’
If I was born a dog, by God, I’d just be turnin’ ten.
It would be a superb score in golf.
And barely get me by in an exam.
But as an age it makes me want to rolf.
And that’s the age it seems today I am.
It is a proper car speed on the highway.
A decent price in rupees for a bun.
And I have done it well and I did my way.
But doin’ it from here will not be fun.
It is the temp I’d pull out my Bermudas.
And it’s a proof I’d like in alcohol.
But now I’m old and swim with barracudas.
And seventy is not much fun at all.