I want to grow old with you.
I want to sit in a creaking oak rocker,
Complaining about the weather and my colon,
Yelling at those damned neighbors' kids,
With their loud music and mufflers,
Holding your hand softly,
As you tell me to shut up.
I want to grow old with you.
I want to drive dangerously into town,
Lumbering in my big Lincoln Towncar,
Cursing at those damned teenage drivers,
With their fast cars and chrome wheels,
Yelling as you pinch me,
And tell me to speed up.
I want to grow old with you.
I want to lie on my Craftmatic mattress,
Snoring as you try to watch the news,
Mumbling at those stupid anchors,
With their fancy hair and words,
Listing all the day's disasters,
As you tell me to wake up.
I want to grow cold with you.
I want to share with you my final moments,
Remembering every good time we had,
Gasping for my pained final breath,
With you there beside me,
Holding me so closely,
As you beg me to get up.
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