I'm issuing an ultimatum,
To all my aging, senior friends,
The activities of late
Have simply got to end.

 

Feeling weak and getting sick,
I demand, at once, you cease,
If you continue such behavior,
You could end up deceased.

 

You trip, you fall, you break a bone,

Your poor, old heart may flutter,

Your bone won't heal, and you feel ill,
And your legs have turned to butter.

 

Now if you keel over at the mall,
Nine-One-One, I'm sure, will come,
They'll pound your chest their very best,
To keep you from becoming numb.

 

Then they'll rush you to Emergency,
Where they'll pound on you some more,
If you don't respond, I'm telling you
They'll take you to the morgue.

 

It's not a joke to have a stroke,

So those, too, have got to stop,

Though you don't feel ill, still take those pills,

That make your BP drop.

 

Enough, my friends, I say enough,
And I insist that you agree,
You cannot go; you've got to stay,
For who'll be left to grieve for me?