Note from Joe: I'm 63. And it's April. Ditto for Ogden Nash when he wrote this silly poem. As always, Nash is funniest if you force the lines to rhyme (e.g. instead of AL-ge-bra, say al-GEE-bra).
Just because I'm sixty-three,
Shall April folly forbidden be?
Though the locks above my scalp
Be thin as snow on August Alp,
Must I then leave April foibles
To sprouts of louts and hobbledehoibles?
I still remain the out-to-win type,
And I reply, "Not on your tintype!"
I will find a zany zebra,
I will teach the beast algebra;
Buy a Peugeot or a Simca,
Present it to a worthy YMCA;
Seek me out a sporting bishop,
Fit him with slaloms from a ski shop;
Roam through Perth and other Amboys,
Gathering luscious fraises and framboise,
To feast on with meringues and Nesselrodes
The while I drink a toast to Cecil Rhodes.
I'll write to some forlorn Penelope,
"S(ealed) W(ith) A K(iss)" on the envelope;
I'll memorize the works of Euripides
And match the footwork of centipedes.
I'll turn my mind to projects grandiose —
Regal, imperial, Ozymandiose —
Be Orientally lethargical,
And write, while lolling in my tub,
A syllabus on syllabub.
So I'll pace out my seven ages
By various frolicsome ambages —
A word that means, in Webster's phrase,
By roundabout or winding ways.
Thus, when April hoots her girlish laughter,
My senile cackle shall echo after.