Let Me Grow Old Disgracefully

Please let me grow old disgracefully.
I don’t intend conforming to the gentle
ways of carers paid to bless a kindly
atmosphere; I dread them hence
in uniforms of muted shades
as beacons of benevolence.

I wonder where the notion came I
need the peace and quiet they claim
will dignify my latter days. Perhaps
I want to rant and rave with passion
borne of yesteryear, hold a moment
by the ears, shout a plastic rage aloud.

Perhaps I want to preen and prance,
woo the ladies to the dance – cavort,
sashay, bop to rhythms my own way
in ballet tights and sing off-key – oh
woe is me! I’d never pass an entry test,
be welcomed as an honoured guest.

I care nought for dignity, it doesn’t pay,
yet arrogance and happenstance allay
the fears they really care – I think, okay,
it’s just their job but not for me. The thing
I want appeased per se remains unchanged.
Let me grow old disgracefully.
© 29 December 2007, I. D. Carswell