“Want to live to 116? The secret to longevity is
less complicated than you think” The Guardian
The headline tells me – boldly, no misgiving –
That I can hang around to 116.
But who on earth could call that life worth living;
I'd lose more than I'd gain, know what I mean?
The ones I dearly love would predecease me,
So very likely I'd be all alone
To beg of death (or doctors) Please release me;
I wasn't built to be here on my own.
I'd shuffle to the park, where I'd see no one
To speak with; we'd have nothing to discuss.
New friendship with an old, old man – who'd grow one?
At 116, they'd say "not worth the fuss."
Good entertainment? Gone before my check-out,
And music I might love I'd never find.
Can't live this way, not me; I'll get the heck out
Before I lose my patience or my mind.
The bistros I enjoy will be closed up then,
While new ones I'd be loath to patronize.
So where exactly would I drink and sup then?
(You see what my dilemma here implies.)
Or what if at the pub my favorite Porter
No longer came on draft? What then, my friend?
No, let my time on earth be sweet but shorter,
And let me leave here happy to the end.