Competition: Young to Old
 

In Competition No. 2668 you were invited to submit a poem that contains advice from young to old. Several of you took as your starting point Robert Southey’s po-faced ‘The Old Man’s Comforts and how he gained them’ — or Lewis Carroll’s much more enjoyable parody of it as recited by Alice in chapter five of her Adventures In Wonderland.
Michael Birt, Tim Raikes, Katie Mallett and Josephine Boyle impressed but were squeezed out by the winners, printed below, who earn £25 each. Brian Murdoch bags the bonus fiver.


You are old, Father William, though threescore and ten
Is not the top whack any more,
And everyone tells me (though heaven forfend!)
You might live to a hundred and four.

And so my advice is: remember your age,
There’s plenty you needn’t now do,
Like spending your savings (that’s my heritage,
And that of the grandchildren too!)

So don’t squander your pension and fritter the lot
On world cruises promoted by Saga.
You won’t enjoy them if you’re losing the plot,
Or if you’re entirely gaga.

Vieillesse ne peut pas, Papa, that is the truth,
And the lusts of the flesh too soon pass.
Stop slurping away at the fountain of youth,
And maybe check out Dignitas.

Brian Murdoch

Please don’t go droning on about how long
It’s been since they released a decent movie,
And don’t use hip-hop slang; that sounds as wrong
As we’d sound saying ‘fab’, ‘far out’, or ‘groovy’.
In conversation, try not to forget
How many times we’ve all heard you recite
Your tales of life without the internet,
Of television shows in black-and-white.
We don’t want your opinions of our hair,
Cosmetics, clothing, piercings, or tattoos,
And we’d appreciate it if you’d spare
Us updates on your organ-failure news.
Don’t kid yourself we see you as a sage,
A mentor Yoda-like, serene, and wise.
Delusion on that scale just proves that age
Has dulled your mind, not merely dimmed your eyes.

Chris O’Carroll

This is the touch screen, dad — no, wait.
Don’t put your card in yet.
You see the menu? Choose the date.
Tomorrow, don’t forget.

Dad? Dad? It just timed out. What bliss.
Okay, let’s start again
And see if we can finish this
Before I burst a vein.

Just read what the instructions say:
The touch screen, then the card.
No, put it in the other way.
Christ, can it be that hard?

Now dad, don’t hyperventilate.
No need to lose our cool,
But do your best to concentrate
Or I’ll be late for school.

G.M. Davis

Unfriend me now on Facebook, Father;
Leave out Glasto, leave out Reading.
Ask me, are there duties? Are there?
Yes: like saving for my wedding.

Leave our slang alone, dear Pater:
Our tongues don’t run in tandem.
‘See you later, alligator’?
What a tag-line — really random.

Conjugation and declension
Don’t match my (well-tanned) kind of Latin.
Please don’t whinge about your pension:
Don’t forget, Dad, take your statin.

Yes, old fogey, in my spare room,
Though your numbers aren’t up yet,
I’m your treasure, and your heirloom:
Leave me in, not with your debt.

Bill Greenwell

You’re becoming impossible, Grandad.
You’re always sprawled out on the couch.
When you retired, your self-pride expired.
You’re a slobbish, uncouth super-slouch.
That ponytail looks bloody stupid —
Like your baseball cap, worn back to front.
You’re becoming quite smelly, you’re glued to the telly
And only converse in a grunt.
You’re surrounded by takeaway wrappers
And lager cans litter the floor.
That holey old vest should go out with the rest
Of the rubbish you choose to ignore.
There’s no good excuse for this, Grandad,
This complete lack of esprit de corps.
We suspect that you’re taking advantage
Of the fact you’re approaching fourscore.

Rosemary Fisher

Dear oldies, do not pay for your today
with our inheritance: save trees and fields.
Leave us enough to let us make our way
through life with comfort on what nature yields.
Ensure the debts you land us with don’t cripple
and turn us into beggars for our bread.
Don’t make your legacy a poisoned apple
nor let us starve that you be richly fed.
Make peace with all your enemies before
you take the path down which no soul returns.
Why should we fight a pointless, costly war
when those that started it are in cold urns?
Go gentle into death, don’t cause a fuss,
depart in peace and leave the world to us.

Max Ross