Middle Muddle

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My youth is gone; old age delays.
I'm in that middle-muddle phase.
The girls look cute, but I don't chase.
With my looks they'd use some Mace.
A steak and fries sounds really great;
but I won't eat 'em after eight.
The hair is thin but it ain't gone,
though gray is rising like the dawn.
Computers do not scare me much;
a Blackberry I will not touch.
The good old days don't blaze at all.
The present, though, seems awful small.
More roomy pants prevent all rips;
my belt is still around my hips.
I'm not afraid of getting tan.
My muffins now are made of bran.
A marathon I still could run;
perhaps a heart attack is fun.
A sweater vest is not so bad,
but you won't catch me wearing plaid.
In church I always wear a tie.
That Buddha was a real cool guy.
Surprises are no awful crime
if I am told ahead of time.
And so I'm neither old nor young,
I only know my spring is sprung

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