Regretfully did I arrive,
Attained the age of fifty-five.
But helping counter my chagrin:
Senior-discounts kicking in.
So, armed with proof that I was born
One distant, prehistoric morn,
It’s off to Burger King I go,
Full of confidence to know
That they most certainly will doubt it,
Make some kind of fuss about it.
“A senior burger, if you please,”
I tell the lad, “with extra cheese.”
Carefully, I watch his eyes,
For just a hint of real surprise.
If only he’d display for me
A look of incredulity,
Challenge me and watch me chortle,
Show this punk that I’m immortal.
Why couldn’t he just ask for proof?
That inconsiderate young goof!
Was it cool to vent such rage,
Or do I really show my age?
Copyright; Bob Wombacher, Jr.
Used with permission from Bob Wombacher Jr.
Not Over Till The Fat Lady Sings 