WHEN I’M SEVENTY

When I’m seventy years old,

I’m not going bald.

I’m not trimming ear hair

And I’m not putting in my false frigging teeth.

When I’m seventy years old,

I’m going to hear every word you say.

And I don’t want to hear you say

I’m going in a home

That ain’t my own.

When I’m seventy years old,

Sorry, but no Hawaiian shirts and

Golf hats for me.

I’m staying in Philly Town

And hitting your golf balls

With my baseball bat.

When I get to be that age,

My wife’s going to be

The foxiest, tallest, sexiest,

Most goddamn gorgeous woman

In the world.

No matter how old she is.

Want me to drive a
Mercury Grand Marquis

With crushed blue velvet seats and

Only a tape deck?

Sure.

If I’m allowed to push it off a cliff.

You think Tony Bennett and Frank Sinatra

And Rosemary Clooney (especially her)

Are going to sing me sweetly to my grave?

Think twice.

When I’m seventy,

I’m driving a Porsche.

I’m wearing de la Renta every day.

I’m getting laid every night.

I’m gonna fall into the golden autumn leaves

And make me a snow angel.

I’ll remember everyone I love

And everything I don’t.

Oh, and by the way,

I ain’t doing winter,

Spring, fall, summer

In Florida.

When I’m seventy.

Okay?