Sunday, 22 March 2015


Put your old age in my hands,

We will dance in pyjamas, beneath old Crone moons,

We´ll leave behind wheelchairs & not eat our prunes,

We will forget our cholesterol & dine on fine oysters,

We´ll pray to the stars & escape society´s tight cloisters.


Put your old age in my hands,

In our slippers, we shall tiptoe away from sore bones,

Hypertension we´ll etch, upon our ancient tombstones,

We´ll leave behind, all our soppings, moppings & oozings,

Instead, we´ll make whoopee, in our old drunken boozings.


Put your old age in my hands,

We shall toast our old love in kisses & bloody red wine,

We shall raise our glasses & toast the rest of our time,

It may soon be over for us, & we may not have long,

So put your old age in my hands, it´s where it belongs.

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