Age

1/ When I was but a baby boy.
2/ Santa to the older child.
3/ Mobility Scooters
4/ Calendar Girls
5/ Up in East Hull
6/ We daren’t say “Dead”!
7/ A medley of Limericks on the subject of ageing.

1/ There is something funny about the ageing process but I can’t remember what it is. In fact, I can’t remember when I started getting absent minded. Oh well, the irony of age is explored here (Sid started it!):

When I was but a baby boy,
So many years ago,
I was a magnet to the girls
I set them all aglow.

They would queue up to cuddle me
Or push me in my pram.
They’d kiss me through the dribble
And call me little lamb.

The wisps of hair on my bald head
Through their fingers they would twirl
And every little botty burp
Would delight each lovely girl.

When I smiled at them with toothless gums
They’d clap their hands with glee.
They didn’t even seem to mind
The constant smell of wee.

The chubby folds along my legs
So lovingly they’d stroke.
At every crevice in my fat arms
A finger they would poke.

They’d pat my back to make me burp
And wipe my runny nose.
They even thought it funny
If I ikkied on their clothes.
.
Now once again I’m fat and bald
And flatulent as well.
My toothless smile has been restored
Together with the smell.

But do the girls all flock around
And make a fuss of me?
No they don’t. I‘m quite amazed.
Why ever should this be?
 

2/ I was asked if I would be available to play Santa at the parish old people’s party. My imagination went into overdrive!

A friend came to me for a favour.
They needed a Santa Claus who
Would give out the presents in the old folk’s club
And he thought that I would do.

It called for a male of advancing years
Who’d work without a fee,
Loud and fat with a big red nose,
Why would he ask me?

Playing Santa to the over 70s?
I just couldn’t get into my head
So I thought it more appropriate
To dress as the Grim Reaper instead.

I arrived at the Derby and Joan club
Silhouetted by the full moon
Instead of being greeted and feted
I went down like a lead balloon.

They had been expecting St Nicholas
With a haul of fine pressies to pick
And weren’t going to give a warm welcome
To a henchman of wily Old Nick.

I needed to start thinking quickly
As they rose to their feet in a rage
All gnashing their dentures in unison
And moving quite fast for their age.

So trying to lighten the moment
And do the best that I can
I threw off my clothes and stood naked.
I’d invented the Grim Reapergram!

I sensed that this was not a good move
And before I could take a quick gulp,
Zimmer frames rained down upon me
Beating me into a pulp.

I suspected that things were beyond my control
And getting progressively worse,
When a driver popped his head round the door.
“Did somebody order a hearse?”

So next time I’m asked to play Santa,
I’ll quietly wear the red suit
Avoiding the lash of the zimmer frame
And the sting of the well polished boot!

3/ The Hull Daily Mail reported how an elderly man was stopped by the police on his mobility scooter going the wrong way down the A63. If you are confused by the reference to works of art, see “Legal Art” in “The Law” section.

Down at the Derby and Joan club
Feeling down at the heels
I decided I would buy myself
A sporty set of wheels.

I’d make both Edna and Gladys
Swoon in admiration
And think me quite the rakish rogue
Through traffic violation.

I replaced the worn out battery
With a brand new duracell
To whizz me round the village
Like a bat from out of hell.

Eat yer heart out Lewis Hamilton!
I set off without a care
As I felt, again, the fresh May breeze
Through both my strands of hair.

The pavement couldn’t hold me
T’was very plain to see
So I set off to open her up
Along the A63.

I’d cut up several lorries,
I suppose it was a sin,
And was burning off a scooter
When the Rozzers pulled me in.

Now I’m feeling very sorry
I’m really in the cart
Sat in this cell in Tower Grange
Admiring the works of art!

4/ It’s Christmas as I write this, and once again we have the crop of elderly matrons baring it all for charity calendars:

Calendar Girls

When those vertical ridges
Appear round the mouth,
Your forehead is wrinkled,
Your nipples point South.

When the figure of Venus,
With muscles rock hard,
Is safely preserved
Under five stones of lard.

When the beer belly’s dropped
To cover the knees
And you must clench the buttocks
Whenever you sneeze.

When the hair on your head,
Which now disappears,
Returns through the nostrils
The cheeks and the ears.

When you feel you have suet
Where once you had brains
And you start getting grief
From your varicose veins.

You know that it’s time for
That last parting jest.
So throw off your knickers
Dispense with the vest!

For now that your years
Can be counted in tens,
It’s off with the clothes
And in front of the lens!

For the whole world is making,
Or so it appears,
Charity nude calendars
Which feature old dears,

Elderly ladies
Who feel it’s a crime
To waste the potential
Of egg sucking time.

You think of your children
Now people of means
You’ve still to pay back
For the storms of their teens.

They won’t dare show their faces
Down in the pub
And may have to resign
From the rotary club.

And then there’s the grandkids,
Wee smarties  no doubt.
They know all the answers?
Well, sort this one out!

It’s worth the goose pimples
Observing with joy
The horrorstruck face
Of each girl and boy.

So come all you bold wrinklies
Wherever you be,
It’s calendar season.
Come a posing with me.

5/ Alas, It comes to us all!

They say that inside every pensioner is a teenager wondering what the heck happened!

Up in East Hull they don’t bury their dead
But take them to Asda or Morrison’s instead.

They lug them inside and I tell you, by golly,
They prop them erect  – with the aid of a trolley.

They then leave them there, with fixed, vacant smile,
At 90 degrees to the flow of the aisle.

Or find some thin bottleneck, that’s hard to pass through.
And block it entirely with a zombie or two.

A small voice recorder, concealed in the hat,
Says, “How much? Forget it. I’m not paying that!”

Or, “Have they got smaller? I knew that they had.
They were three times the size back when I were a lad.”

In time, swept along on the strong human tide,
They arrive at the check out and moor alongside

And there, firmly anchored, wheezing and hissing,
They bring out their wares with the bar codes all missing.

Finally, with actions they have to rehearse,
They send down a search team to look for their purse.

Then they start to unload all their cargo of coppers
Oblivious to other long suffering shoppers.

When the ferryman’s paid they’ll vacate the spot
Then go round again for the things they forgot.

Up in East Hull they don’t bury their dead
But take them to Asda or Morrison’s instead.

6/ Death is the final taboo. So beyond thought that we cloak it in euphemism. To make it easy, I have used the demise of a beloved rabbit to illustrate this to the more sensitive.

Alas poor Bunny, he’s popped his clogs
He’s shed his tent of clay
He’s shuttled off this mortal coil
Poor bunny’s had his day.

His goose is cooked, his race is run
There’ll be one vacant chair.
The fat lady sang for him
He’s climbed the golden stair.

He’s playing football with Georgie Best.
He’s shaking St Peter’s hand.
He’s dancing on a distant shore,
Combing a distant strand.

Now bunny is safely anchored
His tide has ebbed away
He’s sailed to the sunset, crossed the bar
Rang finished with engines today.

He’s slipped his moorings, crossed the Styx
Paid the ferry man’s toll
Passed on, passed over, crossed the divide
Entered glory’s roll.

He stalks the happy hunting ground
He rides the range no more
He’s pushing up daisies on Boot Hill
He’s pawned his boots for sure

He rode to the Rio, crossed the river
Jordan’s waves he plied
He’s headed  for the last round up
He walks on Canaan’s side.

He marches to the heavenly drums,
He’s thrashing the king of Spain
For him the war is over.
He’s lost the great campaign.

He’s travelled to a better place
His restless yearnings ceased.
He’s on the wrong side of the lawn
He’s finally at peace.

Now gone to find the other world,
And claim the righteous crown.
The angels saw that he was tired
And told him to slow down.

He’s risen from this vale of tears
He wears the robe and crown
The Elysian fields are where he roams.
He’s laid his burden down.

In Abraham’s bosom he’s resting now
He sleeps beneath the sward
He’s singing in the heavenly choir
He’s gone to his reward.

He lies at rest, his swansong sung,
He wears the crown of glory
He’s gone to meet the ancestors
Completed his life story.

Bunny walks on Sion’s hills,
He’s entered into the light.
He’s joined the heavenly warriors.
He’s bid the world goodnight.

He’s been called before the heavenly throne.
At the pearly gates he stands.
He’s reaping the corn of righteousness
In Abraham’s  promised land.

He’s gone the way of mortal flesh
He’s called to celestial light.
He’s soared aloft. His fire’s burnt out
His spirit’s taken flight.

He’s soared into the sunset
On angel’s wings of gold
He’s entered through the golden gates
For him the bell has tolled.

Passed on, passed over, breathed his last,
Croaked and coughed his lot
Run out of breath, his time is past
His urgencies forgot.

His earthly journey’s ended.
He’s cut his mortal thread.
He’s deceased, departed, gone before
Let’s face it, Bunny’s dead!

7/ Then Seamus added his bits:

“Bus driver, this step is too high
They expect me to know how to fly!”
The drivers retort?
“It’s your legs that’s too short!”
I’m still thinking of a reply.

If there’s one thing that drives me insane
It must be the way that me brain
Tells this body of mine
That it’s still twenty nine
And leaves me with aching and pain!

To look in the mirror was sad
For staring at me was me dad
But now I’m afeard
Me Grandad’s appeared
Alas, I’m no longer a lad!

There’s nothing so bad as your teeth
Though you need them to handle your beef.
When they come and they go
They’re letting you know
And causing you aggro and grief!

Twas the funeral wake for our Keith
In the Irish county of Meath
I left there quite worried
My end may be hurried
Cause I was the one caught the wreath!

While bemoaning me pains and me aches
And the difference advancing age makes,
I’d long ago sussed
That a cemetery’s just
A collection of doctors’ mistakes!

It really needs to be said
The thought of hair fills me with dread
It sprouts without fear
From nostril and ear
But there’s none on the top of me head.

There I was – dressed to impress
In a spirit of great hopefulness,
When a little voice said,
“Grandad, who waxed your head
And made such a terrible mess?”

My skinhead attracted such stares
A tattoo seemed the cure for my cares
They tattooed to perfection
My rabbit collection
From a distance they look just like hares.

We elderly bikers have grief
With lard where we used to have beef.
To stuff all me fat
In the modern crash hat
I have to take out me teeth.

Elderly shoppers are to be offered thief-alert bells to clip onto their purses after a spate of purse snatches in Beverley town centre…

It’s really too simple for words
And it sets them aside from the herds
At the bus stop they’ll prance
In a brisk morris dance
And it stops them from catching the birds.

Back to the Antiques Roadshow

What the antiques roadshow just begs
Is me in my old Long John kegs
The contents of these
Are a pair of ape knees
And exquisitely turned Queen Anne legs.

I couldn’t believe it was true
That the ancient Nintendo I knew
As a family keepsake
Was really a fake
Not a relic of Brian Boru.

They said that it beggared belief
When I took them great grandad’s false teeth
But he’s in no mood
For eating his food
Now that he’s six foot underneath.