Poetry Time

When I Am Finally Old

When I grow old, my hair, of course,
Will long ago have fled.
So I will need a curly wig;
I think I’ll opt for red.

My eyes have read their last good joke;
In fact, they may be glass.
For them I’ll choose the color green
To remember summer grass.

My teeth will sleep in a cup of water,
And there they will stay all night.
In morn I will press them into place;
At least they will be white.

All joints-the elbow, knee, and ankle-
Will be held together by screws.
The hips will be completely plastic.
I’ll wear corrective shoes.

A skillful doctor with careful scalpel
Will pare off front and big behind.
Everything will be lifted or shifted.
To all these changes, I’m resigned.

There will be so little left that’s me,
I’ll have to change my name.
I think I’ll become “Bionica.”
I’d advise you all to do the same.