Whatever Happened to Old Men?

[Sir_Nigel]

Stubborn and cantankerous, staunchly puffing pipes,

in grimy watch-chained waistcoats - indomitable types

who drank their bottled Mackeson in ancient Sunday suits

and tended neat allotment plots in stout misshapen boots,

rejected domesticity for fusty garden sheds

and cultivated winning blooms in spotless flower beds.

Their roomy, chest-high trousers bore a shabby lived-in sheen

with traces of each dribble, drip and spillage they had seen

and though a certain odour might some negligence imply

they all believed a man’s not fully dressed without a tie.

They cleared their chests in noisy and uncompromising ways

their grim expectorations lingered stubbornly for days.

Industrial diseases they would mulishly resist

and lingering old war wounds were intractably dismissed

as long established habits were unfailingly pursued,

they buggered on with bloody minded fortitude.

 

 

That’s how they used to be

But will that be me?

once time has passed

(and if I, touch wood, last)

 

 

Their modern day equivalents who reach that worthy age -

those Honda-driving pensioners in neatly laundered beige

who worship Sunday carveries and ageing sitcom stars,

holidays in Benidorm and small Korean cars,

have never planted cabbages, never taken snuff,

never scolded urchins with a well delivered cuff.

Time is surely passing but I’ll never freely choose

nylon pastel leisure-wear and comfy slip-on shoes.

 

 

I think I’d suit:

a worn old suit,

a crumpled hat,

a faithful cat,

a little plot,

a little pot (of marigolds),

a homely shed,

a loaf of bread

(with tea and jam

and a wee Scotch dram).

 

Also there

an old pub chair

and as life slows

I’ll softly doze.

 

 

But grumbling madly,

ageing badly.

[G12Ravda]

I've been on here for a while Sir Nigel but am so glad that I did, to catch your excellent Whatever Happened to old Men? I really want to copy & keep this.

[Sir_Nigel]

thanks

 

...or... you could buy the book. It's in there!

[Rampent]

Stubborn and cantankerous, staunchly puffing pipes,

in grimy watch-chained waistcoats - indomitable types

who drank their bottled Mackeson in ancient Sunday suits

and tended neat allotment plots in stout misshapen boots,

rejected domesticity for fusty garden sheds

and cultivated winning blooms in spotless flower beds.

Their roomy, chest-high trousers bore a shabby lived-in sheen

with traces of each dribble, drip and spillage they had seen

and though a certain odour might some negligence imply

they all believed a man’s not fully dressed without a tie.

They cleared their chests in noisy and uncompromising ways

their grim expectorations lingered stubbornly for days.

Industrial diseases they would mulishly resist

and lingering old war wounds were intractably dismissed

as long established habits were unfailingly pursued,

they buggered on with bloody minded fortitude.

 

 

That’s how they used to be

But will that be me?

once time has passed

(and if I, touch wood, last)

 

 

Their modern day equivalents who reach that worthy age -

those Honda-driving pensioners in neatly laundered beige

who worship Sunday carveries and ageing sitcom stars,

holidays in Benidorm and small Korean cars,

have never planted cabbages, never taken snuff,

never scolded urchins with a well delivered cuff.

Time is surely passing but I’ll never freely choose

nylon pastel leisure-wear and comfy slip-on shoes.

 

 

I think I’d suit:

a worn old suit,

a crumpled hat,

a faithful cat,

a little plot,

a little pot (of marigolds),

a homely shed,

a loaf of bread

(with tea and jam

and a wee Scotch dram).

 

Also there

an old pub chair

and as life slows

I’ll softly doze.

 

 

But grumbling madly,

ageing badly.

 

Top stuff dude!! Really like!! The grammer all to whack though