Rusty Gears Poem by Mark Heathcote

As we grow old we start to jitter & shake
No longer are we the angels of Swan Lake.

Our balance helter-skelter's first left then right
Forwards, then backwards, filling us with pure fright.

Our skins are like those thin layers of an onion
We've moral dilemmas, what's our compunction:

What holds us here; we've rusty gears taking us
Off track—have we all become superfluous?

What can we all do to stay virile and fresh?
I tell you, we'll be senile soon back in crèche.

Giving our best goo goo ga ga impressions
Forgetting, all our earlier, transgressions.

As we grow old we start to jitter & shake
No longer are we the angels of Swan Lake.