No Reason To Complain

Yikes, aside from mental health re: psychotherapy, which haint the worse cyst phase of being objectionably being called "old man", this poem doth tack toward the no body, and will address no illusory (no app for) pretensions alluding to verse, the slow-mo ravages of aging, evincing and inching into solid AARP universe suddenly (moon if fish int lee) impinges on endurance even crimping poetic raptures tubby terse though (oh my this muttering ole hound) chronologically traversing that arbitrary, elliptically, and imaginary Maginot line i.e. almost three score year, thy esprit de corps unlike complaining crotchety curmudgeon folks living here Highland Manor situated in Schwenksville, Pennsylvania, not much older than me do daily air lamentations kvetching even on days pitch perfect and clear find some bugaboo to gripe about which dispositions hardly makes them endear ring at least to myself, a baby boomer (lix orbitz licked) gear ring up to enter sixth decade of life, when a tell tale battle of the bulge paunch finds mine equatorial zone somewhat flabby, a mockery of washboard blubbery abdominal sculpted tone engirdled with loathsome ample "NON FAKE" lovely jowly handles which I hate, though human flesh naturally prone to the lowest point of resistance, and finds these lovely bones to groan.