My Age

I wasn’t young when I arrived. Years pass,
And I just can’t get younger, though I’ve tried
Until my stomach hurt, my brains were fried,
And passers-by looked like they all had gas.
I thought of paying for a Catholic mass,
But when they look at me, the bishops hide
In those old bolt-holes, and pretend they died
When I observe them through the one-way glass.

So here I am, progressively grown older,
Unlike my closest friends, who all stayed young
And beautiful. The songs the men had sung
Drew women, priests, and archers. I got colder,
As salty tears dripped softly to my shoulder,
But only once they’d dribbled from my tongue.