Twenty Won: Sean

 Roon

It’s almost time for me to enter my thirties, so I wrote a little ditty about all of the ridiculous transformations that my life (and body) are going through as I say goodbye to my youth. I hope you enjoy it

As 30 approaches you notice some changes,
Life as you know it, right down to the basics,
Can’t abide bars full of child disgraces,
You prefer an old boozer with five fireplaces,
Cranky old locals with craggy old faces,
Rihanna -free zone, Queen on the playlist,
Swap screaming young girls with steaming young ladies,
But then you head home, curfew respected,
Only had one so your work’s not affected

But the bass from next door is starting to grate,
You still like the music, but Jesus it’s late,
Berating the neighbours, you need a replacement,
You need somewhere new, preferably with a basement‘,
You feel hypocritical, their faces they groan,
When you were their age you were wasted or stoned,
Debasing yourself and defacing your home,
Blasting out basslines and wasting your loan,
Biting your tongue but talking bollocks by the bucketload,
A partying cyclone in full blown fuck-it mode,
Mother told me no but I got smashed like a rubble road,
And now I spend my time assorting socks into colour-code

Rugged old has-been, these days I lead another life,
Now I like relaxing, can’t hack it like a butter knife,
Trouble, strife, lover, wife? Pressure descends,
Relationships are viewed through a magnified lens,
But beautiful things can’t flourish under scrutiny ,
Like ants in a playground being burnt with impunity,
I’d rather leave some things up to fate, not force,
You don’t meet your wife within a date of course,
Meddlesome relatives they make me hoarse,
The same stupid questions get the same retorts,
‘How is the love life? Is your ex still around then?’
‘Well now that you’re asking, the sex is astounding,’
The world’s getting tougher, you’re feckless, a phantom,
Wearing stress like you used to wear reckless abandon

Successful young people leave you disgusted,
Green’s not your colour, but neither is mustard,
You cast your mind back to when you were youngsters,
When ballers and singers were leaving you flustered,
They were all on the diesel man! Even in Busted,
See them all now and their sheen it has rusted,
FHM mags were semen encrusted,
Full of feeble young models, in demons they trusted,
Sat with the girls, dreaming of justice,
While men ran their world like Caesar Augustus

You see what the fuss did and it’s not so pretty,
Jealousy retreats and is swapped with pity,
Women reach an age and get dropped in shitty,
Situations by the fucking Op Committee,
Time to see a surgeon or a doctor, Lily
Of course she heard the words and it shocked her silly,
Ladies caged in middle-age where the frocks are frilly,
But a horse isn’t worthless cos it’s not the filly

Will he be next?’ Shrieks Grandmother daily,
Hypocrisy will never cease to amaze me,
They used to hurl johnnys at every lady,
Now you’re being bullied into having a baby,
A medley of weddings every Summer,
At first it was moving but now it’s a bummer,
You can feel your heart getting gradually number,
Immune to the vows, just here for the party,
You pray for a fight or an unhinged auntie,
Partly because you’re a pauper-for-hire,
Las Vegas stag dos and formal attire,
You just can’t afford it, but Lord loves a trier,
Entirely bullshit, you’ve just gotten tighter,
You’d rather save up than toss cash on the pyre

Remember the days before money concerns,
And overdrafts felt like money to burn,
Dicing with debt but you dreamt through the darkness,
Oscar Wilde style, cement in the stardust,
Before the bank charges eventually parred us,
You used to have nothing but spent it regardless,
Mentally marvellous, hardship was harmless,
You found your last tenner and lent it to Marcus,
Just did what you liked, pulled the strings like Gepetto,
On a high like Mariah singing falsetto

Muleskin bladder, but incontinence beckons,
You’ll now have a pint and you’re bursting in seconds,
Thirsty at night-time past thirty? Forget it,
Sip on that water and mate, you’ll regret it,
Your liver’s been pickled, straight vinaigretted,
But you can’t hydrate without waking each second,
Bodily shutdown, fitness declining,
Football’s a struggle, a sickening hiding,
Outsmarted by kids like that bit in The Shining,
They run rings around you, sniggering, smiling,
You’ve lost your composure, so sit at the back,
Try a step-over, a ligament snaps

And it’s not just in sport, but also your style,
Shopping trips littered with foolish denial,
Ill fitting T-shirts, a constant supply line,
Stormtroopers, Pugs or the New York Skyline,
Options decreasing for credible style,
Either dress like your Grandad or dress like a child

And it’s probably clear, what my message embodies,
Is that moaning becomes your most cherished of hobbies,
Joyous misanthropy, oxymoronic,
Victor Meldrew misery is the tonic,
As although it gets tougher, there’s one thing you’ve mastered,
Your skin’s getting comfier each year that passes

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