A Ballad of Wrinkles
The old never seem to romance anyone
these days. So I’m going to do them a
favor and write them a love poem.
Dear Wrinkled old lady or man,
look it isn’t like you’ve got
a lot going for you. Have you
seen the mirror lately, because
I doubt you have with your
eyesight.
So let’s act like we did in
college. We’ll fuck like wild,
talk about jazz, and
[racial slurs not included
in this poem].
Although I’m oblivious to
the female’s body, according
to this poem, old age often makes
sex more painful. So I’ll use
that lube those pervert kids keep talking
about.
Don’t feel ashamed about it, I now know
thanks to those communists who study
sexual patterns in men that women aren’t
just logs and tend to masturbate more
as they age. Not because they’re horny,
but to insult god’s honor for killing everyone
they loved. But if you trust in me, I can aid
your Alzheimer’s in forgetting about them all.
In the morning when we wake, well before
everyone else, we’ll sit on the porch and
stare at flowers and my lawn. Armed to
the dentures to ensure the neighbor’s brats
stay off! The ones we don’t get, we’ll run over
later.
While we grow ancient together, we’ll
further mad plans to destroy nature
with robots because I love you as much
as someone my age can believe in such
nonsense.
Finally at the end of the day, we can
ride jet packs into the sunset, or at least
take enough Canadian prescription medicine
to think we did.
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