This is failing territory, where we will die
of prostate cancer or sweet pneumonia,
after we hang our coats in the broom closet.
This old man plays nick nack on my drum.

Ambition, the devil, has descended to details
and every meal is eaten with Dissatisfaction.
Give, my Love, the long-dead dog a bone.
Paddy whacked, this old man comes rolling home.

Friends go before us—who knows where.
The bell rings for other men, our door
opens to the mocking grin of thinning air.
This old man plays nick nack on my shoe.

Look, our eyesight is deserting us. Parody!
They say hearing, HEARING, the first to go.
Sans eyes, sans ears, sans smell, sans taste,
paddy whacked, this old man comes rolling home.

What have we left? The furniture of memory.
Dining table your dad made, the ghostly TV,
the ghastly licks of animal horn on the wall.
This old man plays nick nack on my tree.

Residence of sadness where we intend joy,
it will be a property, a prop, for tired feet.
After the drill square and the stroll garden,
paddy whacked, this old man comes rolling home.