Over the hill
Under the rug
Sipping cocoa from a mug.

Where all around voices don’t talk but scream,
They’re making my hearing aid gleam.
All are checking teeth are clean,
While mine happily float up stream.
There’s not much in a toothless grin
But a gummy kind of sin.

Major events roll up and down your sleeve,
Like the tissue that’s been stuck in its weave.
The TV paper has permanence with your lap,
Which the Doc has told you soon will snap.

A shattered leg won’t get you out of bed,
In a home with rooms the size of a shed.
So what now with their constant moving about.

My Zimmer frame would love to shout.
Those nursery types in my nursery pen,
Changing guard at the shed again.

Now my skin is a flapping.
My pajama stripes are chaffing.
All is hell in the land of nod,
here the silence ticks on in my bod.