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Poem	Oh, "rorty" was a mid-Victorian word Which meant "fine, splendid, jolly," And often to me it has reoccurred In moments melancholy. For instance, children, I think it rorty To be with people over forty. I can't say which, come eventide, More tedious I find; Competing with the juvenile stride, Or meeting the juvenile mind. So I think it rorty, yes, and nifty, To be with people over fifty. The pidgin talk the youthful use Bypasses conversation. I can't believe the code they choose Is a means of communication. Oh to be with people over sixty Despite their tendency to prolixty! The hours a working parent keeps Mean less than Latin to them, Wherefore they disappear in jeeps Till three and four A.M. Oh, to be with people you pour a cup for Instead of people you have to wait up for! I've tried to read young mumbling lips Till I've developed a slant-eye, And my hearing fails at the constant wails Of, If I can't, why can't I? Oh, to be beside a septuagenarian, Silent upon a peak in Darien! They don't know Hagen from Bobby Jones, They never heard of Al Smith, Even Red Grange is beyond their range, And Dempsey is a myth. Oh golly, to gabble upon the shoulder Of someone my own age, or even older! I'm tired of defining hadn't oughts. To opposition mulish, The thoughts of youth are long long thoughts, And Jingo! Aren't they foolish! All which is why, in case you've wondered I'd like a companion aged one hundred.
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