Beneath the dust of mind’s forgetfulness,
Interred, lie dormant, treasured memories
That waken to enquirer’s kind caress,
A fountainhead of joy for retirees;
Impeded, not by favour nor through fear,
A torrent of delightful smiles ensues,
Relating raunchy tales for all to hear,
Into the distant years of blue suede shoes;
Alas! Like clay within a potter’s hand,
Sweet Truth consents to being plied by age,
Much better to indulge this happy band
Than see them trapped within a joyless cage.
Embrace, content, those mild autumnal years,
Lest, they be filled with unremitting tears!