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By Lee Nelson

I can deal with the ear hair.

I can abate that.

That much is easy.

And the grey allegedly has

character.  It better.

Considering my face,

my ass is an atrocity

long before it's an asshole.


Crow's feet?  Whatever.

The squinting is just warming up,

and you can keep your

poisonous paralysis, thank you.

Maybe I'm old fashioned,

but I prefer pieces parts that continue

to move.  Anyone should.


And the diminishing physical return?

I can hide that, not to mention

rage against the machine. 

For now.


But the singing in the car,

the bad ass pumped kind,

screaming along to

"You Got Another Thing Coming."

Do they?  Do they really?

That god damn gobbler

says differently from the truck cab.

Sorry, no dice.

Seven out, line away.


And even Sean Connery is dead.

Clint appears quite accepting,

God bless him.

But I bet nobody brings it up.


Perhaps I should embrace this whole

quintessential feminizing

of the young men of America.

We sure speak of it,

and if appearances don't lie,

they're owning it.

Sold!  Salute!


Keep it up, laddies.

I'll take you all on.






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