The Coffin Dodgers' Club

We meet each week us old codgers
At a club we call The Coffin Dodgers
To complain about all politics
And the rising cost of walking sticks

New technology leaves us perplexed
Just how the hell do you send a text?
And now the club’s one smart-arsed female
Wants to teach the mysteries of e-mail

How the hell’s an older gent
No matter how intelligent
To learn new tricks with such great speed
To satisfy this modern need?

Then most guaranteed to vex
Are lecturers on aging sex
Not one of them are more than fifty
I’m ninety one and still quite nifty

I’d rather do it on my own
Than lie abed with some old crone
Who can’t spread her arthritic thighs
How’s a lad supposed to rise?

The world today turns so much faster
It’ll all end up in a great disaster
So stuff your computer and cell phone
Please just piss off,  leave us alone!