When old, I am sure I'll be grey,
retirement a long holiday.
But now, as a lad, life's boring and sad,
when scrabbling about for some pay.
In future, I hope to be wise
with dreams of a generous size.
But now, I just grunt, with attitude blunt,
which others all hate and despise.
In time, I will happiness spread,
be seen as a fine figurehead.
Right now, I am tired; I'm seldom inspired
and have to be dragged from my bed.
I am sure female hearts will compete,
as they swoon, by the score, at my feet.
But pulling the birds, I stumble for words
as they scatter in hasty retreat.
When I'm old, I will pray people say
I'm fun, when invited to stay.
But now, they just groan or moan down the phone.
I do wish they'd all go away.
For Gail Angel Doyle's Contest by Charles Clive.