Salt and pepper man

The other day I went to go and shave.
And saw my face had started to grow and change.
My stubble was silver.
This was a low blow and no token phase.
Cos lately, ‘I’m getting old’ has become my go-to phrase.
But left me wondering, what the hell happened?
Is just over a decade in London enough to leave me battered?
Exhausted each day so I collapse all knackered.
I mean, what gives?
It’s not like I have kids.
What’s that phrase?
Something about if the cap fits.
Cos I probably say ‘I’m getting old’ enough each day to score a hat trick.
So yeah, I can’t ignore the matter at hand.
Is there a way to halt the process?
Should I start to fathom a plan?
Put the word out and gather a clan.
Build myself a team of guys in their 30s and 40s.
Kinda like The Expendables.
But young dads with steady jobs.
We can be Team Sensible.
Or Team Dependable.
And meet up to discuss when we became so terrible.
And work out the point at which we turned spherical.
Or maybe talk about how, on nights out now, we decline those chemicals.
Cos drugs aren’t for us.
We’ve got enough aches and pains.
If we add a comedown on top we won’t escape for days.
Cos it’s the little things that amuse me now.
Like how I put my hands on my knees (with a sound effect) to get up from a chair.
Makes me think life should come with a clause.
A Buyer Beware.
But it’s not like we can trade in our bodies when we’re under fifty.
For me, it’s all about that afternoon sleep.
I get a sick kick when slumber hits me.
Probably the same kids get watching Disney.
Or a cowboy does when he necks a whisky.
But aside from naps, there’s other things to mention.
Like they say sport’s supposed to give you energy.
Get you high on adrenaline.
But don’t listen to the lies that exercise is peddling.
Cos I’m knackered after a workout.
A broken specimen.
Should have trained harder till my muscles were armour like a Trojan regiment.
However a lot of the time, I wish I’d stayed home.
As nights in are the new nights out.
But ‘Netflix and chill’ should not mean sex.
Instead, why can’t we talk?
There are plenty of subjects.
Or instead sit in silence like inanimate objects.
Letting TV numb us as paralysis onsets.
Yeah, that sounds good to me.
But while I’m at it, here’s another thing.
Somehow, still, I get labelled a millennial.
To get down with the kids, I could backtrack and use snapchat.
But this is no way credible.
Cos that group follows a path I just wouldn’t tread at all.
Which is maybe regrettable.
But that’s more than cool.
I mean, soon I’ll be 35.
I’ve got other fish to fry.
Cos often I get stuck on the side of life’s highway.
Wishing I could hitch a ride.
Or at least my brain insists I try.
Despite the fact that getting old has me mystified.
And makes me think I need to punch through to my desired reality with fists that fly.
Cos I just want new experiences.
Like, to see Versaille.
And see Brunei.
And get better at cooking Thai.
And baking pies.
Perhaps learn to stay out of trouble with an alibi.
(On a side note, someone should have said this to Sam Allardyce. But he messed up. Then they had to sack the guy).
But I’ll stop there.
Cos life’s all about sacrifice.
Or so they say.
But I like to fantasize.
And self-indulge with fantastic rhymes.
Cos it’s more inspiring than telling lies.
Especially to myself.
Which is, frankly, the most telling crime.
And, if I’m honest, is one I just can’t abide.

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