Old Musos Never Die

I’ll never make a folk singer, I carry too much weight for that, you have to be lean and hungry and wear a stupid hat. A beard would help, an old check shirt and jeans with a rip or two, well worn trainers or old scuffed shoes and the look of an ingenue. How about a rock and roller? No, that ain’t gonna happen, shirt opened to the waist and all that fat a flappin. Not to mention the skin tight pants, the make up and the hair the stomping and all the hip gyrations, too much wear and tear. I could try rappin’ if I was so inclined but I think my rhythm’s shot, and my pop star years have disappeared, I’m tepid rather than hot. A romantic crooner? That boats sailed along with most of my hair, and everything else is heading South, sometimes life ain’t fair. So I’ll just strum my old guitar and sing the old songs to the wall, and think back to the days, through youthful haze, when I coulda had it all. When the arthritis gets worse I’ll sit and curse and blame it on the strings, but I hope that I still have the will to hum and strum til my heart sings.