Crusty Old Guy Triolets

                 Eighty-Three

My eighty-third birthday to me was a fright

Who could imagine I’d still be around? 

The perils of old age still leave me uptight 

My eighty-third birthday to me was a fright

Though reaching eight decades I’ve done something right

Thanks to whiskey and Miltown I’m still above ground 

My eighty-third birthday to me was a a fright

Who could imagine I’d still be around? 

Loneliness

 

All my friends have gone away 

A fact that leaves me lonely 

No chums left with whom to play  

All my friends have gone away

I wake each morn to loss, dismay

Finding myself only 

All my friends have gone away

A fact that leaves me lonely 

The Worst Idea  

This is the worst idea of all 

Each hour that we’re here, one hour closer to death

The very thought of it casts a dark pall 

This is the worst idea of all

The truth is we need to confront our downfall

Every creature on earth has to breathe their last breath 

This is the worst idea of all

Each hour that we’re here, one hour closer to death

Polymalgia Rheumatica 

I wake each morn in abject pain 

My arms, my legs, my shoulders, my spine

To walk ten steps, a cruel strain

I wake each morn in abject pain

By afternoon I’ve made some gain 

My knees, surprise, now feel just fine

I wake each morn in abject pain

My arms, my legs, my shoulders, my spine

Too Many Docs  

It seems like I go to a doctor each week

The lung doc, the heart doc, the skin doc and more 

My body’s turned into a creaky antique

It seems like I go to the doctor each week

Each visit I’m sure that my prospects are bleak  

But the doc always says he finds life in my core

It seems like I go to the doctor each week 

The lung doc, the heart doc, the skin doc, and more