Your left knee is arthritic,
Your spine is warping too
Your reactions aren’t so quick
And you’re often in the loo,
But we cannot help you
Your time is simply due.
It’s normal for your age.

Your skin’s become quite dry
As well as your nether parts
Your outfit isn’t fly
And you’re far more prone to farts
But it’s been written in the cards
It’s been sung by many bards
It’s normal for your age.

You tell me it’s an illness
And you want it treated fast
I’m afraid it’s your willfulness
You weren’t designed to last
The diagnosis is that your youth is in the past
We won’t treat your condition; the die’s already cast.
It’s normal for your age.

For men of a certain age,
who recall when  Emma Peel
was all the rage.
No one can  ever take her place;
those dangerous curves, her beautiful face.
Who could forget
the scent of  her perfume and leather?

It was easy to Love you, Columbia,
When you were young and fair.
Then opportunity was boundless;
Your land was rich beyond compare.

True you were born in conflict
And the years were not always kind.
Some say they have cause to hate you;
That to injustice you’ve been blind.

Evil men have harmed you
With their crass cupidity.
This current crop of “leaders”
Blunder repeatedly.

You do not stand as tall and strong
As when I met your first.
I see worry lines around your eyes
This year has been the worst.

Still, with all your imperfections,
None could take the place of you.
You still can take my breath away
Draped in Red white and blue.

On this unholy Pentecost
I see the tongues of fire rise
From small businesses downtown
and, just like that , a city dies..

The Acolytes of Anarchy
draw inspiration from despair
They break the windows, rob the place
then torch each store without a care.

The writings on St. Patrick’s walls
are unholy and profane.
Over at St. John Divine
The N.Y.F.D fights the flames.

Further down at Union Square
Violence flares with fading light;
Broken plate glass in the street
Bears  witness to this Krystallnacht.


Is this how a great city dies?
First came a plague and now the sack.
Our Mayor is a weak- kneed progressive,
He plucks his lyre as things get hot.

(Things aren't always what they seem,
and the same goes for people.)

It's a commonly held belief,
a theory by many supposed,
that inside every fat person
a thin person's enclosed.

And it's often been said before
(though that doesn't make it less truth)
that inside many a middle-aged man
beats the heart of a passionate youth.

A girl who appears just a butterfly
may deep down be a slave to her duty;
and one with the plainest exterior
may be blessed with a soul full of beauty.

But here is another hypothesis
I'd respectfully like to suggest
- if no-one has any objection -
that might take up its place with the rest.

If I'd courage to match my conviction
I might stand on the table and shout,
but it's this. . . . Inside every introvert
there's an extrovert trying to get out.

Roy Horn always favored big cats.
He put them in all of his acts.
But then Manticore,
who thought Roy was a bore,
said “Enough” and then Roy was just snacks.