Rusty Gears

As we grow old we start to jitter & shake No longer are we the angels of Swan Lake. Our balance helter-skelter's first left then right Forwards, then backwards, filling us with pure fright. Our skins are like those thin layers of an onion We've moral dilemmas, what's our compunction: What holds us here; we've rusty gears taking us Off track—have we all become superfluous? What can we all do to stay virile and fresh? I tell you, we'll be senile soon back in crèche. Giving our best goo goo ga ga impressions Forgetting, all our earlier, transgressions. As we grow old we start to jitter & shake No longer are we the angels of Swan Lake.