Sixty-five is the tragic year,
When men are put to pasture.
A life once full with thoughts of his work,
now dreaded father time will lurk.
What was a useful citizen,
is discarded without a tear.

Golden Years, these are called,
but are they really so?
Who truly cares how these folks feel?
But their anxieties are all too real -
our lack of thoughtfulness shows;
distressed am I, and appalled.

And for the humble folk,
my heart goes out in full.
Lack of learning binds them so -
they sit at home, nowhere to go.
Lack of interests, memory lapses,
This really is no joke.

With children it's not so bad,
provided they come to visit.
But all too often they don't phone or write,
and day drags on unto dreary night.
I'm as guilty as anyone else,
which makes me feel so sad.

Slowly the hours must pass,
on days as empty as this.
Oh how they must long for some company,
but they know that this will seldom be.
A man must suffer this leisure,
when he is put out to grass.

My life is haunted by fears,
of what's in store for me.
Idleness can stagnate the mind,
which leaves a person in a bind.
Do you feel the same as me?
and dread the "Golden" years?

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