Old men can get grumpy,
Old men can complain.
They hate the cold weather.
And can’t stand the rain.
The sun is to hot,
Or maybe it’s cold.
The youngsters are cheeky,
And are far too bold.
They talk about days,
When they were the youth.
Honest and upright,
And always told truth.
The way they dressed modestly,
No flamboyant style.
Then remember Presley;
And go quiet a while.
They talk about sickness,
The ailments they’ve got.
How doctors and nurses
Have all lost the plot.
They seem to forget
How they looked down on the old.
When they were growing up,
With their story untold.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem