When you are fifty
It is time to soften and mellow
like a good pie.
When you are fifty
It is time to forget about the ventriloquist's dummy in the attic,
You know, the one with the face of Adolph Hitler,
The body of Marsha Hunt,
And your voice.
When you are fifty
It is time to get rid of all those jockey photos
Which you keep in the big box in the attic that you only open on a full moon.
And the tapes from that party where you wore a very short kilt
and performed the last chicken in the shop, guess the sausage,
and the joke about the one legged man and the kangeroo.
When you are fifty
It is time to put away the tee-shirt which says "pull my finger" on the front
And "sorry about the smell" on the back.
It is time to throw away the shoes with the mirrors
and the compressed air nozzles on the toes.
We don't know what they are for but we can guess.
And the spangled tights you always wear at weddings, with the red wig and tutu.
And of course your inhibitions will have to go too.
That's the deal
When you are fifty