The Petit Vieux

“Sow your wild oats in your youth,” so we're always told;

But I say with deeper sooth: “Sow them when you're old.”

I'll be wise till I'm about seventy or so:

Then, by Gad! I'll blossom out as an ancient beau.

I'll assume a dashing air, laugh with loud Ha! ha!...

How my grandchildren will stare at their grandpapa!

Their perfection aureoled I will scandalize:

Wo n't I be a hoary old sinner in their eyes!

Watch me, how I'll learn to chaff barmaids in a bar;

Scotches daily, gayly quaff, puff a fierce cigar.

I will haunt the Tango teas, at the stage-door stand;

Wait for Dolly Dimpleknees, bouquet in my hand.

Then at seventy I'll take flutters at roulette;

While at eighty hope I'll make good at poker yet;

And in fashionable togs to the races go,

Gayest of the gay old dogs, ninety years or so.

“Sow your wild oats while you're young,” that's what you are told;

Do n't believe the foolish tongue — sow‘ em when you're old.

Till you're threescore years and ten, take my humble tip,

Sow your nice tame oats and then... Hi, boys! Let‘ er rip.