By Byron D. Varner
One hundred years of age, I see,
Is what folks want to live to be.
An age to which most all aspire
As each month takes them to the wire
In life's cavalcade.
I pondered this, and I agreed
That it could fill a human need,
But only if a newfound plan
Could elevate the thoughts of man
So age could retrograde.
The first rule would be to divide
Those hundred years, and then decide
Which years I’d start to live out first,
And how to minimize the worst
With all the rules obeyed.
I'd choose last two-thirds myself,
Since I am nearly on the shelf.
I'd like the opportunity
For latter day immunity
From past mistakes I've made.
Instead of being ripe old eighty,
I'd start at thirty (not so weighty),
The second time that I'd been there
Albeit with more savoir-faire
From all my groundwork laid.
Back again at youthful age
I would know that I'd be sage,
With wit and wisdom there for me
To overcome adversity
Face evil unafraid.
With newfound vigor, future bright,
I'd never ever hide my light,
Nor fail to help someone in need
Whatever color, race, or creed
With love that would pervade.
I'd work to know that senior age
Requires not to disengage
From youthful thought or youthful ways,
And spend my time in fruitful days
With others to persuade.
“If I knew then what I know now,”
I've often said, as in a vow.
Well, now at thirty I could use
Whatever expertise I choose
Because my dues are paid.