Time Will Tell Poem by Phil Soar

My skin looks mottled, all tired and worn
Not as smooth as the day that I was born
It's dry and cracked, now I'm sixty-six
Oh how this life is full of tricks

There's a cream for this, and a gel for that
My head's just skin, so I wear a hat
My bumhole leaks like a lava flow
And where it comes from, I don't know

The sound of my kness when I climb the stairs
The arrival of so many new hairs
From places I didn't know they grew
Everyday more of them come into view

I trim them, but they just come back
Hairs are the one thing I don't lack
Except on my head, where they once stayed put
But now they're as rare as old bigfoot

I guess, in time, they will cease to be
No longer will they bother me
Burnt with me at two thousand degrees
All my hairs, and my extremities