The Old Folks Home

Joan of Arc and the Ragged scarecrows

on holiday in the Blue Room

 

Old friends are hard to find

You make them up like sad, tumbling ballads

and say, Good-bye, I'll see you soon

Then watch them fly

to paint a mustache on the moon

And though I speak in cowboy verse

for better or for worse

and say things like: I hide my shame!

I've lost my name!

and, Oh the pain...

The truth is, I've lost my place

Like Hansel I should have dropped breadcrumbs

and when I reached the candy house and had my fill

I could have turned and pranced away

with chocolate dripping from my face

and suspenders made of licorice twists

whistling a merry little tune

But, oh, I wore myself completely out

and now I find that I am myself a scarecrow

on holiday in the Blue Room

 

And it's brought to my attention with a shout

with words that leave me numb and dazzled:

Take a look at yourself tout suite!

You look so thin and frazzled

How so very true

I flap my arms like a giant goose

hoping for a strong wind

Then suddenly my soul comes loose

and politely you must say: It's the end

How so very sad...

The words fall from off my tongue:

Is it finished? Is it done?

Is my fate to find a rocking chair

and tell you of all the places I've been?

Alas, I'm no longer young

I'm a faded, discarded coat that's out of style

And now you say, Hang your hat upon the wall

and stay awhile...

Alas, I'm a bootless buffoon!

They've painted on my smile

and have led me here to this Blue Room

 

All us old fogies sit around speaking of our grandchildren

the Nixon Administration

and the fast cars we once raced

And we spit tobacco juice into cans

while the ladies call us a disgrace

and we call them old bags

Agnes says theatrically, Let death come as a friend!

And Whiskers says, Let it wait!

Smitty says wisely, Let the devil procrastinate

Let him be unresolved as to who to choose

Me, I stare in silence at my shoes

It's just old news

We pass around our family photographs

and we all become confused

Who owns the blue-eyed grandson

with freckles and big ears?

No on remembers

We're too busy counting years

The men speak of politics, the ladies speak of flowers

We toss the words up in the air

then watch them fall lightly down

It's what we do to pass the hours

Yes, it's what we do to pass the hours

 

And when the sun goes down, it stops to say good-bye

turning our Blue Room red

And they wheel us away in our wheelchair thrones

as memories spin and waltz in our minds

And just before they put me off to bed

I pinch the nurse's behind

and she giggles and says:

Mr. Grady! Naughty, naughty...

She says that every time

But Lord, I just can't help myself

I bet it shines just like the moon

Ah, tonight let me die in my sleep

before they can return me to this

Blue Room