Sour Apples

My hands are all gnarly. Sore, cut, bruised and barely
Able to still function. Guess need miracle's unction
To save my loved fingers, from arthritis' ringer.
And I wonder how long, we can still sing our songs.

And type and play piano, make love like Luciano
Pavoratti sings fine. Being crippled's unkind.
Have been blessed all my life, with good health and few strife's
In physical body, 'cept for little balding.

But now must endure, aging's slings and arrows
As body breaks down. That could make me frown.
Youth is wasted on the young. This old saying sings my song.
Guess I didn't waste my youth. Was real active if some uncouth.

Probably just Sour Apples.
Different stages in our grapple
With fate and destiny.
Death's late or sometimes early.


Sour Apples
7:00 AM 8/1/97
by Loveson G. Flower
home in bed