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“The soul is born old but grows young.
That is the comedy of life.
And the body is born young and grows old.
That is life's tragedy.” ~Oscar Wilde
In aqueous humors and colloidal suspensions,
We age like the flower, with rare substitutions.
Our verbs are all parried, in long past declensions;
Our muscles deranged, with minute lax dilutions.
Our memories befuddled, like dropped cauliflower,
Our bodies they sag, though well-aimed at the ground.
Our once-enigmatic expressions, just dour;
If we try to wear makeup, we look like a clown.
Life's no longer the party, that we can anticipate;
Exhaustion's our best friend, who always arrives.
To be fully honest, all our habits are antiquate
And it takes all our energy just to survive.
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