Ray S S
Silver Member
Just a line to say I'm living,
That I'm not among the dead'
Though I'm getting more forgetful,
And something's slipping in my head.
I got used to arthritis,
To my dentures I'm resigned,
I can manage my bifocals,
But oh, how much I miss my mind.
For sometimes I cannot remember,
When I stand atop the stairs,
If I must go down for something,
Or, if I've just come up from there.
And before the frige so often,
My mind is filled with nagging doubt,
Have I just put food away,
Or have I come to take some out?
I called a friend not long ago,
When he answered, I just moaned,
I hung up quickly without speaking,
For I'd forgotten who I'd phoned.
And when darknes falls upon me,
I stand alone and scratch my head,
I don't know if I'm retiring,
Or getting out of bed.
Once I stood in my own bathroom,
Wondering if I'd used the pot,
I flushed it just in case I had,
And sat down in case I'd not.
So, now if it's my turn to write you,
There no need for getting sore,
It may be that I think I've written,
And I don't need to write no more.
Now I stand beside the mailbox,
With a face so very red,
Instead of mailing you the letter,
I have opened it instead.
That I'm not among the dead'
Though I'm getting more forgetful,
And something's slipping in my head.
I got used to arthritis,
To my dentures I'm resigned,
I can manage my bifocals,
But oh, how much I miss my mind.
For sometimes I cannot remember,
When I stand atop the stairs,
If I must go down for something,
Or, if I've just come up from there.
And before the frige so often,
My mind is filled with nagging doubt,
Have I just put food away,
Or have I come to take some out?
I called a friend not long ago,
When he answered, I just moaned,
I hung up quickly without speaking,
For I'd forgotten who I'd phoned.
And when darknes falls upon me,
I stand alone and scratch my head,
I don't know if I'm retiring,
Or getting out of bed.
Once I stood in my own bathroom,
Wondering if I'd used the pot,
I flushed it just in case I had,
And sat down in case I'd not.
So, now if it's my turn to write you,
There no need for getting sore,
It may be that I think I've written,
And I don't need to write no more.
Now I stand beside the mailbox,
With a face so very red,
Instead of mailing you the letter,
I have opened it instead.
