Nothing More Disturbing

There is nothing more disturbing to us people in our eighties

than people in their twenties and their thirties having fun.

Their tone will set your teeth on edge, or let us say, your false ones—

prosthetic things that flop around and threaten to jump out and bite,

as bite they should, those young tormentors,

dancing till they stop to fuck: They should be bitten, one and all,

upon the neck and arse and ankles— they look so damned delicious.

And when you hear them howling-yowling, romping-stomping,

making sport, with never a sign of tiring,

or the slightest hint of future care, 

it makes you feel like: Bloody Hell!

Was that me once and I didn’t notice?