They always were the dying breed,

these older souls, they’ve always been

here just for now but not for long,

and very soon they will be gone,

though sooner now for some old codgers,

the sickly ones, the coughing dodgers,

the ones whose race is almost run,

whose final song will soon be sung.

They’re dying now in herds and droves

in helpless homes with caring folks

who sit with them and let them know

how loved they were, who let them go,

then wonder if that final kiss

has left them, too, a dying gift.

We saw them all, our old grand farters

together with our great gross mutters,

we saw their crimped-up pastry faces,

the saggy bums held up with braces,

the runny eyes and dewdrop noses,

the accidental fly exposures,

the legs held in parentheses,

the martyrs to their chuffin’ knees,

the orificial sproutifoliage,

the clothes that wore the morning porridge;

we heard their shaky, cackled words

and could not make out what they were,

we smelled that ancient trailing stench

that followed everywhere they went,

we tasted bleach in every kiss,

these are the things you’re going to miss.

I miss them now, I miss them still.

I always have. I always will.