You’re time-expired, you’ve been retired, cold-shouldered from the job-scene,
you’re surplus to requirements, a sad, discarded has-been,
your use-by date has come and gone, you’re on the shelf from this point on,
you see yourself rejected, diminished and demeaned.
So steep yourself in deep despair, should you be so inclined.
Turn to booze, what’s there to lose? Get pissed out of your mind.
But think before you turn to drink, will you miss that daily grind?
What exactly is it you’re so loathe to leave behind?
Is it the politics of working, the pettiness of rank and grade?
The foreman round the corner lurking, ready with his foul tirade?
Maybe it’s your colleagues shirking, tools mysteriously mislaid,
or all the extra hours you do, overtime unpaid?
Admit that you don’t need it. It’s over, you’re well-rid
of humiliating compromise, of doing as you’re bid.
From now you’ll live a life of ease, of telling others what you did,
you’ve arrived in the realm of used-to-be’s.
There are used-to-be embalmers, used-tobe sheep-farmers,
it’s not unknown to come across a used-to-be snake-charmer.
There are used-to-be model-girls (all still fashionably attired),
but you’ll never meet a used-to-be retired.
No more annual assessments, no more set-backs in career,
no rumours of redundancy, no unemployment fears,
no worries you might get the sack, from here on in you can’t get fired.
You’ll never be a used-to-be retired.
A used-to-be looks back on work, forgets its dull routine,
sees retirement as a sad event. It’s not, by any means.
But better a used-to-be who sees his life well-spent
than a bitter and resentful might-have-been.