I miss our college days,
When life's pace was slower,
We all answered our phones,
And we hand wrote love notes,

Now life's a computer,
You go to Web MD,
If your problem's mental,
Just hit the search button,

You know you're growing old,
And your bathroom mirror,
You chug-a-lug three Advil,
And follow that with Motrin,

Your diet stresses fiber,
And two shots of Meta Musal,
You splash on the Rogaine,
Except for ears and nose,

Keeping up with the news,
Can not be accomplished,
And although hearing aids,
How to adjust volume,

Your bedroom's more quiet,
Cause if you get lucky,
Real sex now requires,
And a trip to the druggist,

Yes, its life's last quarter,
A monthly SS check,
You put up with heartburn,
And thank God you're still on,

But it's that time in life,
On the priest down at church,
Then Mass at St. Patrick's,
And pray hard there's still room,

on the Hanover plain
and things were more sane
without touch-tone voice mail
without need of e-mail

with a mouse and a click
if you ever get sick
and your head's like a bomb
for therapist dot com

when you hit your forty-fifth
shows all parts need a lift
to help with your bursitis
to soften your arthritis

to check cholesterol
with a side of Geritol
but hair keeps receding
where the growth's unbelieving

both foreign and local
without your bifocals
were a true God sender
you can not remember

and the door needs no latch
you get a back scratch
some abra-ca-da-bra
for a hit of Viagra

and the old rocking chair
and token Medicare
and occasional gas
the top side of the grass

to make an impression
with open confession
to say you're so sorry
in old purgatory