I try so hard not to be boring or beige,

Like you might expect from a man of my age.

I’ve no time for labels that tell me who I should be,

For I see my age as helping to let me fly free

 

People expect me in cardigans, faded and loose,

Or grey baggy trackies of limited use.

Elasticated waists? Oh please, what a bore.

I’d rather leave those in a heap on the floor.

 

Why settle for frump when you were born to look slick.

A sharply cut suit does a far better trick.

No tartan lined slippers with a sensible sole

I have no desire to look like I’m out of control.

 

Instead, give me brogues in a rich, polished teak,

Hand crafted leather that’s timeless and chic.

I’ll step out with a swagger, precise and refined,

Leaving those dull, cozy slippers so far behind.

 

My trousers are fitted to my generous frame,

In a deep midnight blue that puts beige right to shame.

A real tailored jacket, with stitching in red,

With a colourful silk lining all sewn with fine thread.

 

Classic elegance, sculpted and sleek,

Not the tired old wardrobe they think I would seek.

So let the world marvel at my vigour and grace,

As I step out in style and set my own pace.

 

Getting older is an art, and I’m doing it bold,

Proving that age doesn’t mean that you’re

old.

Dressed to the nines with a sharp, coloured twist,

I’m living my best life, but I’m quite often pissed.