On Growing Old

In the Middle ages,
So say the learned sages.
Kings my age were often called "The Old."
Yes I feel the pains,
Of unforgiving sprains.
But I'm not yet thick with grimy mold.

My mind is sharp and clear,
Even moreso I fear,
Than in those days when I was in my prime.
Then my writing was sporadic,
For nights up in the attic,
When I wrote when the mood was worth the time.

I once wrote a series,
Of a future theory,
Where politics were local and astray.
I thought it quite perceptive,
Editors sent notes rejective,
And events made it obsolete anyway.

Finally with no assumption,
I finally found the gumption,
To make writing an almost daily thing.
No longer an "undiscovered genius,"
I've become a realist,
I am good, but hardly Poe or King.

I've visited Niagara,
But might need a Viagra,
For adventures that need might imply.
I still can be quite flirty,
And meet a woman of say thirty,
If she has no objections, why should I?