ONE HUNDRED YEARS

That's what you'll live to if you're lucky or unlucky -
because you'll have to endure problems certainly;
my mother lived to three months short of hundred,
asked me if I changed my pants, she wondered.

I only have eighty years left, yes I must be joking,
my whole life is ahead of me - I can't wait to begin;
friends tell me to watch out for sex, money and drugs,
I'll just write and at end of my poem, I can say 'hugs.' 

Probably travel, some say they were abroad in England,
I can tell you, it's said to be dreadful, much second hand;
might have a family, my son might end up in logistics,
as long as he goes with the flow, not some 'rural' in the sticks. 

My sister at eighty nine doesn't want to be in any 'care,'
all they do is sit in the lounge, straight ahead they stare.