I, the noble Juan Ponce de Léon,
of vigorous life and limb,
quester of the Fountain of Age,
alongside my loyal conquistadors,
wield rusting Toledo swords
as we rampage through drugstore displays,
slashing bogus pro-age promises
for more wrinkles, sagging flesh,
creams creating crepey skin,
slackening and dehydrating it –
vain attempts to restore
the dull matte look of years,
oxidizing ointments, night time balms
turbocharging liver spots,
warranties for warts aplenty
in just thirty days –
Nothing but humbug!
With our youthful, healthy,
radiant glow, sleek velvety hands,
lustrous glossy hair, we forge ahead,
firing off our arquebusses
to rout the hawking staff,
we fling wide delivery doors,
and there in a corner
of the car park we find it,
gurgling, gushing, welling –
The Fabled Fountain of Age.
Casting aside our helmets
and breastplates,
unbuckling leg greaves,
we plunge into the waters
and emerge hoary, bent,
shanks shrivelled,
joints knobby, arthritic,
pate depilated to boot,
with toothless gums
lallahallelujahing –
At last, we are old,
hobbling gleefully
towards our
twilight years . . .