Eleven

I’ve seen better days
My spirit is weak
My flesh is in ruins
I can’t see my feet

It was nice while it lasted
Some of the time
A few minor offences
No major crime

I laughed through my fears
I passed for a man
There are no cheers
I also ran

I’m just another sinner
Without the power to be
What they said I must remember
God wanted out of me

I tried to use my reason
And if indeed it’s sound
I’ll have not a leg to stand on
When I’m underground

Sometimes I’ve dribbled
But I have had my fill
I ate, drank and was merry
While death kept the till

Now that it’s “Time Please”
It’s no surprise
Whatever comes after
It’s only surmise

We like to think
We see it clearer
As the brink
Is getting nearer

But we’re no more wise
And seldom bolder
There’s no prize
For growing older

I’ve just got to take
The rough with the smooth
It’s not as though there’s much at stake
I’m all I’ve got to lose

Maybe I’ll never
Be ever again
A twitch and a quiver
And who knows what then

No one can foretell
What before us lies
When death cancels
Our calm or frantic eyes

Now all our guests have come and gone away
And you and I can hold each other close.
No need for haste as we await the day
The night falls into. No need suppose
We’ve failed to find what we had lost before
We caught the gleam in one another’s eyes
Which signalled hope returned, to teach us more
Than seemed our crumpled hearts could realise.
The ghosts of youth are weary of the stage.
There’s no one left to offer us a fight.
No sermons we must sit through at our age.
No passing fancies shrouding our delight.
Sweetheart, our love is true, but can’t outlast
Our ruined raddled flesh. O hold me fast.

I cannot say that I’m the man that I
Once was. He slaved away to set me free.
He left a nice soft bed on which to lie
To whom he’d be when he had reached eighty
He did the sowing. I reap what was sown.
He picked and pressed the grapes. I drink the wine.
I still am paying interest on his loan.
I am the legacy of his design.
The baton now is in the hand of age,
Not youth. The future still presents its trial.
Whatever is the writing on the final page
I’m what’s come out of all those years’ denial.

I ask myself if he would be happy
If he could know he’s turned out to be me.

Another one won’t do me any harm.
The damage is already long since done.
I’m nothing now I’ve lost my funky charm.
There’s no one left who knows last time I won.

There’s no doubt if I alcoholise my brain
It’s somehow not so bad, but still the same.
And with a little more, I can’t refrain
From following my customary game.

Perhaps I’m after all not depass;.
Who knows. I still might have it in me yet.
The best is yet to be. I know a way
To make a million dead. You want a bet?

It’s time to have another round what think?
Hey. Hullo baby. Come here. Have a drink.