It is said, three score years and ten
Is your allotted span
So after seventy, you have to wonder, when?
Especially now you’re a shaky, old man.

If lucky, I won’t have to wait too long
I won’t miss this modern time
I won’t be sorry to soon be gone
My light no longer, continues to shine.

I admit modern music leaves me cold
Hate Halloween – American hype
Perhaps, because I am getting old
It seems to me, all just utter tripe.

I will not miss music rap rubbish
Nor packed tube trains
Shops where the service is sluggish
No just a grave will hold my last remains.

All in all, it’s been a great life
Blessed with love and friends
Selfish I know, to leave the wife
But every life eventually ends.

Mike.