I sneered,
When she muttered our age was no spring.
Aeeh! I would she’d known.
Our juvenescence was definition of luxury.
These senile backs once like horses ever rode music.
It’s age’s hand that has smudged the daisies,
These decrepit visages
In their time of reign ever stole eyes.
Ordeal to us was an alien concept.
I narrated the bars that like domiciles sheltered,
Then the brandy that like snakes slid down throat.
We once were details of male attention.
She undeniably conceded,
Their age is no spring.
© Namaganda