I wonder what it’ll be like

at the end of my life (say, when I’m 85—if I ever get there)

and the beautiful girls

who were 17,

are now 90, with hunchbacks

and drooping eyelids.

They won’t be able to control me

with pussy, anymore.

For that matter—money, will be superfluous

and my career, meaningless.

I won’t even know who I am

only that, I’m that old man

that looks into the mirror.

I’ll still have to shave

but my pecker won’t stand-up, anymore.

They’ll wheel me out in my chair

and I’ll stare

at the butterflies.

“Isn’t it a beautiful day, Andrew?” My nurse might say.

and I won’t say anything.

You see, I’ve seen it

27,375 times.

Although, I’ll understand her curiosity.

She’ll be kind to me, while she tortures other men

with her bosoms.

I don’t know what’s worse—

not being considered sexually viable

or being tortured by my female nurse?

No wonder, some men, cut it off, with a box-cutter

(As long as it’s kept on ice, and able to be reattached, I’m okay with that, but if it’s thrown onto the freeway and flattened by a car, or disguised in a hot dog and eaten at a ball game, I’m not okay with that)

Somehow, the piece of me, I don’t want to lose, is my penus.

For Walt Disney, he had his head frozen (probably, because he did his best thinking there)

For most men, their creativity comes from somewhere else.

It’s the tiny thing

that motivates them.

Take that away,

and they lay on the couch,

and eat.

We lose perspective.

Kids want to be adults, and adults want to stay young, forever. They paint their faces to postpone retirement.

They hold onto work, like a life preserver, until they work themselves to death.

We dismiss puppy-love,

because we are dogs,

and the old dog dies.

What does he care about?

The old dog cares about his Master,

who loves him,

and welcomes him home.