The more the situation calls for me to behave with gravity and proper decorum, the more I’m likely to drag my heels and stubbornly glue myself to being silly and irresponsible and to frustrate any attempts to make me act however is deemed suitable to my age. Those nearest and dearest to me have long since learned the futility of asking me to behave in any sort of adult-appropriate manner and they tolerate, or to varying degrees, enable this impossibly impish attitude on my part. No wonder I love them so.
. . . so I'll just keep lying around and looking at the pictures in the clouds . . .
In all probability I’d be prone
to be an insufferable old crone,
a hag, a harridan, full of mold,
if I had to mature–grow up–get old–
because, in truth, the prospect’s grim
when responsible heart meets creaky limb,
and milky eye and baggy middle
drag joie-de-vivre down a little–
I’d rather, by far, annoy my peers
by being unfitted to my years,
guffawing, as boisterous as a sinner,
and eating six Popsicles for dinner;
skipping like a stone across the Square
and having wild grass seeds in my hair,
wearing skirts too short; taking much too long
to figure out what I’m doing wrong,
yet enjoying the doing things just the same,
since it’s all a bit like a great big game
anyway–this journey we call a life–
so why should we let it sour, be rife
with tedious, tiresome old-age gunk?
I’d rather go back to school and flunk
for excessive dreaming and foolish pranks.
Grow up? Grow old? Mature?