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I keep gettin' older and hairier |
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on my neck, back, and derriere |
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but not atop the pate. |
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Dear DNA, let's negotiate! |
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I'll trade the fading vision, you could have that back |
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plus the 30-year-old-man belly is kind o' wack. |
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My hearing is nearing deafness and I wheeze. |
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Yo please save me from the wrist hurt disease. |
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It's infeasible that these, a full list of ailments, |
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should do anything but accrue. I'm 'a fail ten |
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times out of ten to age in reverse like Mork. |
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Is there anything sadder than a dork |
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for whom the new hotness is not just inaccessible, |
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it's grumbled against? You kids, reduce your decibels! |
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Don't make me come over there and shake my cane. |
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[It's that rapper from the double-A-R-P and he insane!] |
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This old man, he rhymed once |
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he put up some valiant fronts |
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with a wick-wack bitter lack of youthfulness and charm |
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this old man kept rhyming on. |
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Joints creaking while I squeak around the stage, |
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hella grandmothers tellin' me I ought to act my age. |
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Deranged already, I don't got no brain medicine. |
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If we were runnin' out of food on a boat, I'd get jettisoned |
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or eaten. I'm unsweetened. |
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Don't tell me that I got the shortest straw, I'm not a cretin. |
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Just a little senile and gassy and slow |
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but I bet I'm very salty and I could still row. |
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Let's gobble on the infant. Infants are useless. |
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Also very soft, which is good, 'cause I'm toothless. |
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Come on kids, you wanna get rescued or what? |
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Don't mumble all amongst yourselves. Speak up! |
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I lost my earhorn the other day on the bus. |
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You would think by the way you whippersnappers make a fuss |
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that I said something crazy, profound, or obscene. |
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Wait, where'd the ocean go? Where have you taken me? |
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This old man, he rhymed twice |
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he found this would not suffice |
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with a wick-wack bitter lack of youthfulness and vim |
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this old man was dour and grim. |
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Now Frontalot's shopping for the top of the hill. |
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Should have bought a burial plot as soon as I got ill, |
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but I foolishly thought that I could put it off; |
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now I'm ghoulishly fraught with a [koff koff koff]. |
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Soft in the head, hard in the disposition: |
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how'd I earn this intractable attrition |
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of the vigor that I figured would be mine for life? |
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Is there no upside? Well, the rhymes are rife! |
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Every year I'm alive, add to my vocabulary. |
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Gonna do it till I'm staring at the ceiling in the mortuary. |
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Plus I'm probably wise by now |
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and could do all the things old people talk about |
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like count pills, argue bills at diners, |
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get a little tiny funky car and be a shriner, |
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go to the haberdasher so I could look dapper, |
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get stroke and forget I'm too old to be a rapper... |
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This old man, he rhymed thrice |
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he spoke a thin gruel of lies |
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with a wick-wack bitter lack of youthfulness and spunk |
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this old man's rhymes was bunk. |
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This old man, he rhymed lots |
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rhymed till he grew liver spots |
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with a wick-wack bitter lack of youthfulness and cheer |
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why he rhymed remains unclear. |
