(Three from a series of character sketches of old people.)
Old Rachel’s fierce and heavy-browed
Her views are strong; her voice is loud.
She says the councillors are crooks;
She says the mayor cooks the books.
She says the government’s a mess -
Don’t start her on the NHS -
While London, which survived the Blitz,
Is being bought by foreign shits,
By criminals and sheiks and sharks,
And kleptocrats and oligarchs...
She scours the world with caustic wit -
And wow! – but she looks good on it,
An upright and imposing figure
Emanating verve and vigour -
Suggesting that to vent one’s rage
Is therapeutic in old age.
Old Margaret, after Michael died,
Knew she mustn't just sit inside
And let life wither away.
She went to talks and joined guided walks
Through bluebell woods in May.
She signed for a class about painting on glass,
And one shamefully glorious day
Got terrifically drunk with an elderly hunk
She met at the U3A.
Then she became for an hour or two
A Margaret Michael never knew
And might not have understood.
Though in time the hunk proved rather a skunk
(As she'd sort of suspected he would),
She now faced the world with wings unfurled,
With ‘I couldn’t’ replaced by ‘I could’.
She thought: ‘I am me! I am female and free -
life, after all, can be good.’
Old Christopher is well aware
His days are drawing to a close,
And when he’s had his toast and tea
He settles for his morning doze.
Ivanka clears his tray away;
His gaze moves gently to her hips,
And as he wanders into sleep
A smile is playing on his lips,
For he is entering a dream -
A joyous dream where he’s pursued
By several plump and laughing women
In the pink bumgorgeous nude.
If you have any thoughts on these old folks, George Simmers would
be pleased to hear them.