When I am an old man I shall not wear beige.
I shall wear faded denim and cowboy boots which are down at heel and need soled.
I shall spend all my money on guitar strings and magazines and beer,
And buy coffee for the old women wearing purple.
I shall still wear a golden earing, like some kind of ancient, gypsy minstrel,
And go out in port and starboard socks like Kate and Anna McGarrigle.
I shall sing the protest songs I learned as a teenager
That demand to know where all the flowers have gone.
And I shall argue in public with traffic wardens and slow check-out girls,
And swear loudly at religious zealots and politicians
To challenge the arrogance of their self-promoting dogma.

I shall turn up at music festivals with my guitar
And people will look and say, “I thought he was dead.”
And I will release a CD of new songs
That shall have on its cover a cautionary label which says:
**** Parental Guidance!

Just for now though, in my sombre middle age, I have to act responsibly
And not embarrass my friends and family.
I have to eat sensibly and not drink too much,
And pay my taxes and vote.
But later on, when I am old, my friends will know
That in my dotage I am just rebelling late in life
Against the strict, grey Presbyterianism of my youth.