My Generation

“I’ll never grow old!” at sixteen, said I -
My mantra The Who with their wish to first die.
“It must be hell to be thirty” I grimaced at twenty;
My skin all aglow with future a-plenty.

At thirty I cried for my teenage excesses,
For the start of the end, first grey hair, grown up dresses.
Was that a wrinkle? Did I need cream?
Not youthful, not old, a hybrid between.

At fifty my head told my heart – “middle aged”.
But cruelly, my brain just refused to engage.
Inside, I could still hear The Who’s rebel yell
To be out of it all, to break the “old” spell.

I count off the years, disbelieving, askance.
Ever closer that something, that scary last dance.
But you know what? I hope near the end, my adieu -
My last dance will be danced to that song by The Who…

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