The Petit Vieux

"Sow your wild oats in your youth," so we're always told; But I say with deeper sooth: "Sow them when you're old." I'll be wise till I'm about seventy or so: Then, by Gad! I'll blossom out as an ancient beau. I'll assume a dashing air, laugh with loud Ha! ha! . . . How my grandchildren will stare at their grandpapa! Their perfection aureoled I will scandalize: Won't I be a hoary old sinner in their eyes! Watch me, how I'll learn to chaff barmaids in a bar; Scotches daily, gayly quaff, puff a fierce cigar. I will haunt the Tango teas, at the stage-door stand; Wait for Dolly Dimpleknees, bouquet in my hand. Then at seventy I'll take flutters at roulette; While at eighty hope I'll make good at poker yet; And in fashionable togs to the races go, Gayest of the gay old dogs, ninety years or so. "Sow your wild oats while you're young," that's what you are told; Don't believe the foolish tongue -- sow 'em when you're old. Till you're threescore years and ten, take my humble tip, Sow your nice tame oats and then . . . Hi, boys! Let 'er rip.