Three Sundays hence I’m on MEDICARE,
this Sunday I’m depressed.
Once that milestone comes to pass
all hope is put to rest.

For now at this late stage in life
it almost certainly seems
that I shall never realize
my glorious cherished dreams.

I’ll never be a baseball player,
or find a cure for cancer.
I’ll never be a movie star
or a graceful ballet dancer.

I won’t become an astronaut
who walks in outer space,
or drive a triumphant victory lap
after winning the classic race.

I’ll never write that awesome book
that shines new light on truth,
or be the country’s winning choice
when they leave the voting booth.

I shall not be a CEO
who builds a huge empire.
I will not heal tormented souls
or fight a raging fire.

What will I be? Pathetic me,
a balding, chubby soul.
One who cannot claim that he
achieved a grand life goal.

A self-indulgent old man
whose time was sadly wasted.
An empty being who can’t recall
any glory that he tasted.

A LUMPY, DISGUSTING, USELESS HULK
THAT WASTES THE AIR HE BREATHES.
A PILE OF BIOCHEMICAL DUNG
FERMENTING IN THE BREEZE. 

A REPULSIVE, SELF INDULGENT PIG
WHO WRITES HIS SILLY RANTS,
AND HALF THE TIME FORGETS TO ZIP
THE FLY ON HIS OWN PANTS!

A FLIGHTY, DIRECTIONLESS, SUPERFICIAL DUNCE.
A SHALLOW, UNFOCUSED FART.
Ooops… I gotta run right now.
The game’s about to start.