By David Fewster
A crone will always write in rhyme
A hag will tell you there’s no time
Proud women wear these names like medals
Their bicycles have lost their pedals
Some days they’ll hit you with their cane
Their children say they’ve gone insane
Hair thins and sprouts in foreign places
Thoughts can no longer be read on faces
The days too long, or else too short
At 70, you learn to snort
Old loves invariably vain or fickle
There’s nothing to be bought for a nickel
The coin-operated psychic says you never die
And who can say it’s not a lie?
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