A FOOL AFTER FORTY, by R. B.

 

If a man's still a fool at forty, he must be a fool indeed:

if I can't now tell a book from a brick, or discern a flower from a weed

At three score years and ten – what further wisdom do I need?

             ''The plastic bag will always let you down''.

 

The dodo and the dinosaur are aeons out-of-date, –

Effete and unadaptable – extinction was their fate,

I'm an eighteenth century throwback, with the mind of a child of eight:

             ''Fools rush in where angels fear to tread''.

 

The bloke who sniffs the roses while on his way to work,

Or who lazily reposes when he should be at the kirk, –

Mistakenly supposes that his duties he can shirk,

             ''We are all due for the High Jump'', said Sir Malcolm.

 

If I'm strolling through the fields, do I deserve to be alive?

A parasitic passenger who's happened to survive, –

The Reaper's got me in his sights, though to dodge him I may strive:

               ''I shall live until I die'' growled old Clemenceau.

  

When the money's rolling in, what is the point of hoarding gold?

When one's long done with being young, it's no fun growing old:

For the old are tired and timid, while the young are brash and bold

                ''Truth is more precious than Time'' declared Disraeli.

 

I may be a carping critic, or just an eccentric crank,

But unless I possess substantial means, or hold an exalted rank, –

The cheques will go on bouncing all the way from the Bank: –

             ''The Road to Hell is paved with bad intentions''.

 

There's no room for the failure, and no chance for the poor:

a favoured few may avoid the dust, – but the rest must sweep the floor –

(Hard luck for those left standing in the queue outside the door) –

                 ''Sir Arthur was simply very, VERY sorry''.

 

The idealistic Fabians for High Culture had a thirst;

But now the great unwashed are here, – to make our ear-drums burst

With their blaring ghetto-blasters, while the tabloids dream their worst:

                   ''Publish and be damned'' : roared The Duke.

  

The crass commercial media with its massive circulation

Threatens individual talent, thwarts all genuine creation.

The Computer's in control, we're under constant observation, –

                I can hear a Copper's Chopper' in the distance.

 

¬The corner shop is doomed, – it faces terminal decay:

'Small Book Sellers' are now by 'market forces' swept away:

the Beast will oust the Beautiful in this Banausic Day: –

            'Facts are better than Dreams,' observed Sir Winston.

 

The chump who wants to sing a song, – he must be off his head:

He shouldn't be in business, he'd be better off in bed:

As far as Government's concerned he is already dead:

           'There is no such thing as The State', wrote Wystan Auden.

 

In the words of Robert Bridges, – 'I do not give a Dam' –

As long as I'm allowed to go on living as I am:

I'd be just as happy punting on the Cherwell, – or the Cam, –

            And the answer's a BANANA, (which means NOTHING).