My hair recedes;
My waist juts out;
I’ll soon be a bald
Unstylish stout.
Blood pressure’s up;
Vitality
Has found a brand-new
Low in me.
My nose has shine;
My wit is dim;
My hips spread wide;
My prospects slim.
Why can’t someone
Devise a plan
Whereby we could
Just average man?
by Ray Romine Wednesday, October 11, 1950
