When I am an old woman I shall wear calico
With a chintz cap that doesn’t go and doesn’t suit me
And I shall spend my pension on brandy and crochet lace
And buckled shoes and say we’ve no money for cable
I shall sit down on the front stoop in the summer evenings
And gobble up samples in shops and ring fire bells
And run my stick along public railings
And make up for the modernity of my youth
I shall go out barefoot in the rain
And pick berries from the hillsides
And learn the squeezebox
You can wear six layers of unmatching patterns and be more forthright
And eat a whole basket of peanuts at a go
Or only cornbread and picalilly for a week
And hoard ink pens and sealing wax and teacups and pairs of pockets
