WHEN l'M 64
When I get older losing my hair,
Many years from now,
Will you still be sending me a valentine
Birthday greetings bottle of wine?
If I'd been out till quarter to three
Would you lock the door,
Will you still need me, will you still feed me,
When I'm sixty-four?
oo oo oo oo oo oo oo oooo
You'll be older too, (ah ah ah ah ah)
And if you say the word,
I could stay with you.
I could be handy mending a fuse
When your lights have gone.
You can knit a sweater by the fireside
Sunday mornings go for a ride.
Doing the garden, digging the weeds,
Who could ask for more?
Will you still need me, will you still feed me,
When I'm sixty-four?
Every summer we can rent a cottage
In the Isle of Wight, if it's not too dear
We shall scrimp and save
Grandchildren on your knee
Vera, Chuck, and Dave
Send me a postcard, drop me a line,
Stating point of view.
Indicate precisely what you mean to say
Yours sincerely, Wasting Away.
Give me your answer, fill in a form
Mine for evermore
Will you still need me, will you still feed me,
When I'm sixty-four?
Whoo!
As written and sung
by the beatles.
Now I'm a member of an alien species. I have vague memories of being a human, but they could be somebody else's memories implanted on a microchip. I have the body of a member of that species, but I'm actually less than two years old. I have a clear memory of the room I was born in, and of those around me at the time. It wasn't a hospital delivery room. It was a workshop. In a cellar room. A man named Ron Stewart was in charge of my creation. I remember his wife Jan acted as a sort of midwife. It was a stressful birth. The building was the Landon Public Library. The workroom was Ron Stewart's Poetry Workshop.
I'm two years old and sixty four at the same time. A strange state of being.