Here comes seventy,

an age thought I’d never reach,

golf game sucks: knees hurt bad,

too many pills, daily, one each.

Moving slower each passing day,

diabetes and arthritis, what a reward,

doctors say don’t drink so much,

advice thus far, completely ignored.

Why would anyone want to live so long,

with nothing to take the edge away,

a dirty martini, extra olives please

to forget another bad golf score that day.

But wait, don’t forget, there are grandkids,

 truly God’s great gift, one has to think,

 eleven of them, truly blessed,

 certainly, a reason not to drink.

Always another golf match in the morrow,

 surely redemption on them I’ll prantz,

this time, I’ll get my money back,

hoping parents gave them an allowance.

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