When I am an old man I shall wear plaid socks
Which don’t match and a bright yellow hat.
And I shall spend my children’s inheritance on booze, candy,
And trashy novels, and say I used it for an operation.
I shall deliberately drive slow and use the wrong turn signal
And talk loudly to people in public and cry wolf
And touch every appetizer on the tray before taking one
And make up for all the fetters I endured in my youth.
I shall pretend to be deaf,  just to annoy people
And I shall wear my pajamas all day, even to the bank.
And I’ll swear. A lot. 

I can make things up about the “Old Days”
And eat steak and fries every night
Or just dry cereal and peanut butter for weeks
And steal things, like batteries and dinner rolls. 

I wonder if old men know how good they have it
With no one to answer to and the excuse of age to use whenever they want
And no worries about the future
Or what others must think. 

Maybe I should start now for practice?
So that it won’t be too hard to find socks that don’t match
And swearing will come easy.