I ride to town to cut my hair,
Even though it’s barely there,
And standing on the ninety-nine
I ponder on my slow decline.

The bus is full, I’m fit to drop
And as we reach the second stop
A youngster gives his seat to me;
I ponder my mortality.

I settle in the barber’s chair
With nothing else to do but stare
At my reflection in the mirror,
Watching old age coming nearer.

The barber sets about his task,
Trying to meet the usual ask
Of trimming years from clients’ heads
With razor, clippers, scissors, threads.

He fights the ever-losing battle
Through the client’s tittle-tattle,
Strimming all the stubborn stubble,
Snipping signs of hirsute trouble,

Fighting bravely on in vain,
Trying to make us young again.
But the ageing process doesn’t stop,
Eyes will sink and jowls will drop.

So like the surgeon and the chemist,
Quack and shrink and therapist,
He fails at quite high hourly rates
As we plod past our sell-by dates.

Despite the pills and metatonics,
Exercise and ergonomics,
Our decline will only steepen;
Bones will ache and wrinkles deepen.

Till we transcend this chrysalis,
And see if this is all there is;
We’ll move on to another plane
Perhaps, some say, begin again;

Alight from one bus for another.
Where’s this go? We’ll ask each other,
Zooming on beyond our zone
Towards a terminus unknown.