Back when he was as hot as ice is cold,
What hope have we for any satisfaction
When we are half as hot and twice as old?
It matters not what cigarettes you smoke when
Your hair's gone gray and wrinkles scar your cheek;
No girl will make a man who's tired and broken,
Whether he will or won't come back next week.
The chords of Time go strumming ever forward,
Much faster than Keith ever played guitar;
And we, like ships the wind is driving shoreward,
Break on the reefs before we cross the Bar.
Youth's music fades too fast; we mourn the loss,
Sit in our rocking chairs, and gather moss.
No comments:
Post a Comment