Another apology to T S Eliot;

ON NEARING 50.



I will not be Prufrock, my life measured by coffee spoons-
For do I not know many popular tunes?
My spoons, caffeine-stained, rest in mugs and on saucers.
Wear my trousers rolled? Me? I talk trends with my daughters.

My waist-land has grown but death holds no dominion.
I’ve claimed not on my policies so it’s actuary opinion.

The naming of years is a difficult matter
It isn’t a game with your afternoon naps.
You may think at first I’m as mad as a hatter
Who’s discovered that old folk wear back-to-front caps,
Wander paths towards death from whence no-one returns-
Wonder vaguely how much their annuity earns.

Their mortgage like yellow fog wreathed round the house
From Banks willing to deal (but were turned down by Faust)

If I’ve three score and ten to expect from my span
Of life here on earth as an ordinary man
Then I’ve many years left so I’ve time to grow old
But I’ll not start just yet while there’s jokes to be told