three times three times three: the inspiring poetry continues.

Now I've lived longer than Kid Rock's Joe C.,
and Nick Drake, he couldn't last longer than me,
and Gia Carangi, whose life looks quite short,
joined lovely Gram Parsons, who died of a snort.

You might try to tell me that I'm tempting peril.
"Better tip one for Kurt, he stared down a barrel.
Or Jimi, or Janis, they died this age, too,
and I see no Teen Spirit coming from you."

I'm accepting twenty-seven as neither bad nor preventable,
though I'm slightly more fragile, slightly more dentable.
I'm trying to find the bright side of aging,
though I'm doing more damage in the process of gauging.

My back is now creaky; my knees are a mess,
(though my sexual peak may be near, I confess).
It's too late to die young; I'd look like a boob.
But I am better than square; I'm a cube!

Hooray for twenty-seven.