Now We Are Sixty-Four: VI

A CROWN OF SPIKES

The virus creeps, on lead-pan feet,

And makes us look to inward space;

It’s not so much the missing beat

Of life as it’s the raw disgrace

That comes from knowing that you’ve failed

To keep your distance from the rest;

And put your health at risk entailed

Through contact with the bloody pest.

Pandemic’s cruel spikes ensure

We’ll be a long time shut inside;

To keep our body fluids pure

We’re being forced to crawl and hide;

But there’s a future bright ahead

Showing dimly through the mist;

Because we all down-vote the dread,

Somehow we will all persist.

Now We Are Sixty-Four: V

Cherry Pits

Contract, zero-based,

Uber part-time,

In the gig economy

Where wages are a crime― 

Packing at a warehouse,

Always on your feet;

Cycle food delivery,

Wobbling on the street.

Working without benefits―hope you don’t get ill,

Paying off your student loans, the never-ending bill,

For a piece of paper that can’t help you compete,

Because the thing you studied has become quite obsolete.

How are you supposed to live, where rents are soaring high?

Retirement’s a cruel joke: you’re barely getting by!

This old working world’s gone so downhill, it’s like to give you fits:

We boomers got the cherries, and all you folks get are pits.

Now We Are Sixty-Four: IV

STINKER

Stinker―what I call him―is an ID of my own,

And Stinker is the reason why I’m never all alone.

Trolling through the internet, wading through the slime,

Stinker’s who I am when I am wasting people’s time.

Oh, you may think you’re clever, you’re the smartest of the smart

And folks online may love you and may take you to their heart

And moderators moderate and try to play their part―

But they can’t

Stop

Stinker.

Stinker’s always posting, ‘cos he likes to take the piss

And he never stops to worry what his friends will make of this.

Or if his friends might think he’s not got too much on the ball,

But that’s because he really hasn’t any friends at all.

Oh, you might think you’re clever, with your massive store of facts,

Your style is always pleasant, and your tone never detracts,

And moderators love you and they won’t give you the axe―

But they don’t

Faze

Stinker.

Stinker’s brave as Braveheart when you don’t know who he is;

Stinker’s brave as Tories when the suff’ring isn’t his;

Stinker’s brave as Anarchy. His mood is always fine …

Except when people call him out: it’s then you’ll hear him whine.

Oh, you’re all of you so witty, you’re a clever sort of folk,

Though you would never say it, it might even be you’re woke;

Except it seems to both of us you just can’t take a joke―

When it comes

From

Stinker.

Stinker doesn’t care for facts; it’s only how he feels,

That justifies the content of the ranting that he spiels.

So he will make up anything to counter claims by you,

And double down on anger when you say it isn’t true.

Well, you may say I waste your time, that I’m too much to bear;

And you may think you’re not like me, but I say that’s not fair,

‘Cos all of us have secret selves, a Stinker we all share ...

Yes, Stinker is the worst of us, and Stinker’s always there.

Now We Are Sixty-Four: III

The Drooples

A miserable Boomer

Had drooples

And wobbles

That got up inside of his head.

The ads on the TV

Said “Just listen to me!

I’ll help you get back in her bed.”

He worried his member

Might wilt ‘til September

Or even November

(the following year)

It wasn’t his vision

To see a physician

(Besides, the copay was insane).

A shrink was expensive,

The thought made him pensive

The fault couldn’t be in his brain.

But lack of tumescence

Was such an excrescence

This failure of essence

Just filled him with fear.

But what could a Boomer

With drooples

And wobbles

Do to provide him a cure?

The mail-order potions

The capsules and lotions

Were all of them equally sure

And yet at the junction

Of pill and dysfunction

The patented unction

Provided no quo for the credit-card quid.

And so he decided

His woes coincided

With things being done to all guys

By women of #meToo

And liberals who blew

All Y chromosomes to the skies

He needed a figure

Of bluster and vigor

To make him feel bigger―

And that’s why he voted the way that he did.

Now We Are Sixty-Four: II

The Internet Song

(The following is a work of doggerel. Any resemblance to any person, living or dead, in the following lines is purely and embarrassingly coincidental. Really)

Some friends and I write

In the midst of the night

In a sort of a forum that only we read;

Though we may seem quite dense

Our enjoyment’s immense

And it’s clear that to publish ourselves fills a need.

In the comments we strive

To keep language alive,

By trashing each other with little remorse.

It’s a form of debate

That leaves some quite irate;

But we always indulge ‘cause that’s par for the course.

Though we know that it’s vicious,

Completely malicious;

Civilized folks wouldn’t do it;

The desire to take part

In the bloodletting art

Makes us all sing this song and get to it:

Keith is clouting Cory;

Pippa's stabbing Hugh

Helen R

Has gone to war

With Peter and with you.

Weiss is slagging Jairus;

Natalie’s incensed.

Sara growls;

Caitlin yowls

And now the fun’s commenced.

Not all have the strength

To survive this at length

And some have announced that they’re calling it quits.

But those who have stayed

Battle on, undismayed;

For the chance to call others “oblivious twits.”

If it’s quiet you seek,

Or your temperament’s weak,

Then I strongly advise you to pass on your way.

But if you’ve got the gall

To attack one and all,

By all means come join us and jump in the fray.

Sure, we know that it’s vicious,

Completely malicious;

Civilized folks would know better;

But our rabid convulsion

Gives ‘way to revulsion

Unless we cut loose and go get ‘er:

Corwin hassles Peter;

Cameron gets him back;

Lorna’s sting

Confounds Do-Ming

Who leaps to the attack.

Karen shows up cursing,

To join in all the fun;

The whole darned gang is sturm und drang,

And still we’re not quite done:

Sherry’s after Robin;

Karl unloads on me

Madeline,

With stealthy grin

Joins Janice on a spree.

Mark and Jill are snarling

Like a pair of stoats;

Chris and Dave begin to rave

― And Paige is taking notes.

Now We Are Sixty-Four: I

[i]

Non-aligned.

I think I am a liberal, I grieve for people’s pain

(Though I haven’t helped the Homeless to come in out of the rain).

Perhaps I might be antifa; I know I’m not alt-right

Because while I look good in black, my friends are not all white.

Perhaps I’m a reactionary; No―I am PC.

I’m feeling very mixed-up and I don’t know what to be―

                    

AND

Left and Right

And Right and Left

And vacillate I go―

All around the spectrum―

The pol-i-tical spectrum―

Wishy-wash

And washy-wish

And up and down I go;

I think I am a Socialist embracing all with Care;

No―I believe in Trickle-Down,

In benefits cascading

In benefits cascading from a Hand that isn’t there.

SO

Galbraith, John

And Friedman, Milt

And Hayek, Keynes, et al―

All around the spectrum,

The ec-o-nomic spectrum―

I think it is irrelevant what politicians preach,

And it really doesn’t matter what the proud professors teach;

What I believe―yes, I believe I’ll have another drink;

‘Cause I’m feeling pretty fed-up and I don’t know what to think.

BUT

Muddle through

I’ll muddle through

No theories will I borrow.

I’ll think the way I want to think.

―At least until tomorrow.

Now We Are Sixty-Four

Yes, I know: Somebody already wrote a book called Now We Are Sixty. But I had the idea first; that book dates from the late nineties, the first poem in my collection of poems for aging boomers was written back in 1992. Or 1991; my records aren't too clear.
Anyway, most of those older poems have had to be scrapped. They were about television and the anti-Yeltsin coup in Russia; does anyone even remember that? Fortunately, there is no shortage of inspiration for a contemporary revival of the original idea... starting perhaps tomorrow.

NOTE: I have retconned this and other entries in this series to reflect a change in title. I cannot believe it didn't occur to me until last night that the revised title made much more sense because a) it name-checked Sir Paul M's fifty-one year old ditty; and b) it more closely resembles my age at the time of writing.