Eighty is the new sixty.
—Ubiquitous
You still wear a size two with great flair,
And keep adding more blond to your hair,
Maybe started a late-life affair with a hot late-life guy.
But although you are nimble of brain and unflabby of thigh,
Eighty is not the new sixty.
Eighty is eighty.
All your panties are satin and lace.
And you move at a vigorous pace.
And you’ve had some work done on your face, which of course you’ll deny.
If you must tell your age, you can tell a quite plausible lie.
But eighty is not the new sixty.
Eighty is eighty.
You get treatments to pep up your glands,
And erase those brown spots from your hands.
Whatsoever will slow down time’s sands you are eager to try.
But the years that remain are in shorter and shorter supply.
And eighty is not the new sixty.
It’s two decades older than sixty.
It’s closer to ninety than sixty.
It’s exactly halfway between one zero zero and sixty.
No, eighty is not the new sixty.
Eighty is eighty.