The Order of the Gray Mustache
gathers at table four,
Where we meet each month
like clockwork to toast Aleve
and the head achieved
mixing weed ‘n oxy.
Everyone’s had a cancer scare
and needs glasses. Has a parent
showing signs or is planning
a trip to France.
Our ladies lithely grace the room and
we’ve leveraged ourselves for fine wine.
We’ve tamped down our hyperbole
and take a pill, from time to time
to tighten a muscle
or lighten the load.
We binge watch now and read what we read.
Listen to Monk when the girls are out
and play the hits when they’re in.
We still hold some resemblance
to our past though we find our convictions flinty.
Our prayers too small to touch the sky.