Before we turn into a stiff
life has four stages––here’s the riff.
The first stage is when we are young,
a story that is gladly sung,
and lasts until we’re sixty five,
and after that if we’re alive
we enter what’s now all the rage,
and called by most the “young old age.”
It lasts until we’re seventy-four,
when we pass through another door,
becoming what is called “old old, ”
which lasts till eighty-four, I’m told,
when all lapse into old that oldest,
the stage where only those who’re boldest
may dare to play their final role,
until they’re buried in a hole,
unless, of course, they predecease,
and can’t attend your obsequies.
This is entirely too damned amusing, Gershon....yeeeesh....and not funny at all. ((sigh)) You NEVER let your hair go grey! Better red- then, dead. Sandra, tottering forward....
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
Yes, let's all poke our tongues out at the ageing process! LOL! Speaking of which, let me wish you a wonderful 68th year of life along with continued and lasting happiness and success of every kind. Love, Gina.