You’ll not pitch for the Yankees,
Or be the President.
Or write that one great novel,
Or compose a top ten hit.

Those boyhood dreams won’t happen,
It’s mighty plain to see.
A freight train named old age,
Is headed straight for thee.

Those years went by so quickly,
And in the mirror you see,
A wrinkled face and thinning hair.
Who can that old man be?

Your clothes are not in fashion,
Your music out of style.
Young girls look right thru you,
And never flash a smile.

Like all the other “boomers”
Your pensions way too small.
The days go by in solitude,
You wander through the mall.

If you could do it over,
But know what you know now.
You’d buy Microsoft at 15 bucks.
Your life would be a “wow”.

You wouldn’t marry Doris,
Your backseat high school flame.
Or fight that war in Viet Nam.
Things wouldn’t be the same.

You’d write that one great novel,
Compose that top ten hit.
The Yankees would have signed you,
And you’d be President.

But time is like a freeway,
Except there is no map.
You’re kind of feeling sleepy now…
Why not just take a nap?

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