When I Am Old - Augie March

When I am old, Not if, but when

Ailments will derail not end

Laments will fail not to upend

My later years which I will spend

Alone, when I am old, alone —

What is the male kind of crone?

Old lonely men dress for court on their own

Nothing suggests I will not be alone when I’m old

When I am old

There will be no more lions

Only in prisons

Product of aeons of

Bestial poems never told

Fire that does not rage is cold

Cold flames are the tongues that sing dying

There’s no point in lying about being

Old men dress for the mall in the morning

Nothing suggests I will not be forlorn when I’m old

Not if, ifs and buts, but whens

I’ll take a wood load at roughly ten

Measure the hours by some Bushells blend

Read the papers from start to end

Alone, when I am old, alone —

What is the male kind of crone?

I’ll give the obituary special attention

Which of my neighbours has earned a mention

When I am old

There will be no more whaling

Oh you cannot go whaling

When there are no more whales

In the tepid sea

My instincts have always been dull

Not that I ever listened at all

If I lay in a burning bed

I waited for the rain to fall

Old men see what they’re leaving behind

And thank small mercies for going blind

When I am old

I will have no companion

No mouser no spaniel when

All I could do is

To leave them behind

No spark to depend on my dithering lick

Sputtering sickly at candle’s end

No love to address

No missives to pen

When I am old

I’ll take heroin