I am very puzzled and quite frankly slightly hurt.

Warning by Jenny Joseph.

When I am an old woman I shall wear purple
With a red hat which doesn’t go, and doesn’t suit me.
And I shall spend my pension on brandy and summer gloves
And satin sandals, and say we’ve no money for butter.
I shall sit down on the pavement when I’m tired
And gobble up samples in shops and press alarm bells
And run my stick along the public railings
And make up for the sobriety of my youth.
I shall go out in my slippers in the rain
And pick flowers in other people’s gardens
And learn to spit.

You can wear terrible shirts and grow more fat
And eat three pounds of sausages at a go
Or only bread and pickle for a week
And hoard pens and pencils and beermats and things in boxes.

But now we must have clothes that keep us dry
And pay our rent and not swear in the street
And set a good example for the children.
We must have friends to dinner and read the papers.

But maybe I ought to practise a little now?
So people who know me are not too shocked and surprised
When suddenly I am old, and start to wear purple.
 
Not for Me a Youngman's Death
By Roger McGough

Not for me a youngman's death
Not a car crash, whiplash
John Doe, DOA at A&E kind of death.
Not a gun in hand, in a far off land
IED at the roadside death

Not a slow-fade, razor blade
bloodbath in the bath, death.
Jump under a train, Kurt Cobain
bullet in the brain, death

Not a horse-riding paragliding
mountain climbing fall, death.
Motorcycle into an old stone wall
you know the kind of death, death
My nights are rarely unruly. My days
of allnight parties are over, well and truly.
No mistresses no red sports cars
no shady deals no gangland bars
no drugs no fags no rock'n'roll
Time alone has taken its toll
Not for me a youngman's death
Not a domestic brawl, blood in the hall
knife in the chest, death.
Not a drunken binge, dirty syringe
"What a waste of a life" death.
 
What me worry? I should care,
Shit for brains, wire for hair,
I’ve seen the future and I ain’t there,
Things are gonna get worse.

Velcro slippers and a spandex wasteband,
Washed up on Planet Wasteland,
Zipped up like a nylon spaceman,
Things are gonna get worse.

Things are gonna get worse, nurse,
Things are gonna get rotten.
Make that hearse reverse, nurse,
I’m trying to remember everything that I’ve forgotten.

Things are gonna get worse nurse,
things are gonna get crappy,
colour me perverse nurse,
bad news always makes me happy.

Things are gonna get worse nurse,
things are gonna get dismal,
smite me with a curse nurse,
make it something real abysmal

Things are gonna get worse nurse
I ain’t optimistic
I’ve got a mouth like a purse nurse
and a bungalow smelling of piss and biscuits

things are gonna get worse nurse,
murder by statistics,
take me back to the first verse,
the last ones just too pessimistic

Euthanasia – that sounds good,
An Alpine neutral neighbourhood,
Then back to Britain, all dressed in wood,
Things are gonna get worse.

By John Cooper Clarke.
 

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