Yikes, aside from mental
     health re: psychotherapy,
     which haint the worse
cyst phase of being
     objectionably being called "old man",
     this poem doth tack
     toward the no body,
     and will address

     no illusory (no
     app for) pretensions
     alluding to verse,
the slow-mo ravages
     of aging, evincing
     and inching into
     solid AARP universe
suddenly (moon if fish int lee)
  
     impinges on endurance
     even crimping poetic
     raptures tubby terse
though (oh my this
     muttering ole hound) chronologically
     traversing that arbitrary, elliptically,
     and imaginary Maginot line
     i.e. almost three score year,

thy esprit de corps unlike
     complaining crotchety curmudgeon
     folks living here
Highland Manor situated
     in Schwenksville, Pennsylvania,
not much older
     than me do daily air
lamentations kvetching even

     on days pitch perfect and clear
find some bugaboo to gripe about
     which dispositions hardly
     makes them endear
ring at least to myself,
     a baby boomer
     (lix orbitz licked) gear
ring up to enter

     sixth decade of life,
when a tell tale battle
      of the bulge paunch
      finds mine equatorial zone
somewhat flabby, a mockery
     of washboard blubbery
     abdominal sculpted tone
engirdled with loathsome

     ample "NON FAKE"
     lovely jowly handles
which I hate, though
     human flesh naturally prone
to the lowest point of resistance,
     and finds these
     lovely bones to groan.