I don’t do drugs
I don’t backcomb my hair
I don’t want to be famous
But it just isn’t fair
I’m too bloody old
And nobody cares
I write poems for fun
That I now want to share
The publishers tell me
That I’m far too old
They need somebody younger
To turn into gold
They think they’ll make money
From someone with hunger
But I disagree
Now, here is the wonder
They’ve got it all wrong
For sure, don’t they see
There are millions of oldies
All just like me
They like poems that rhyme
And make some kind of sense
Not this quite unintelligible
Academic nonsense
They have lots of readies
And lots of free time
Publishers should really read all the signs
Chase the grey pound, and you all will be fine
PJ.
© 2024
