Silver-hairs in folding chairs
Look on an empty stage
Seeing each other and waiting for
Songs from a different age.
Performers enter all dressed in black
And make a brassy sound
All with the hope these rich old folks
Will help them stay around.
Monarchies, Shakespeare, the elder arts
Rely on good old cash
And silver people are prone too oft
Return to dust and ash.
And so we ask you younger folk
With all your real hair
To listen to some new old songs
And learn, we hope, to care.
The Daily Travesty 