But I digress, not that it matters much at all.
The seasons, winter, spring and summer, fall;
The first, one wishes it were not so cold,
The third, you’d rather it be not so hot.
It’s even more so not hot being old.
And being on the subject, being young is not.
One might be better off by being neither.
Old is best, you don’t have to be young again,
Not knowing what you’re up against from having been.
If you had known you might not have been either.
You might not have stayed put, put up with it,
Permitted it to cut you up to fit,
Might not have been disposed to go along.
But let's not talk about what might have been;
You might instead recall we've all done wrong
A time or two in our four score and ten--
A few that you hope no one knows about.
But still the odds are two to one, so at the Gates
They'd probably let you through, but it's the Fates
Who say where you go when the flame goes out.
2010 nov 15 24 25 27 2012 mar 7 8 thu d fulgham