That is no session for old men. The young

With lithe legs and arms stretch like sapling trees

We, flailing generation whose Latin songs

Fail inflamed and arthritic joints to ease

We began at eight, it’s now ten, how long

Before one amongst us succumbs, and dies?

Caught in that sensual music all wrecked

Monuments of years of bad neglect

 

 

An agèd man is but a tragic thing

All bloodshot eyes and limply sagging flesh

Soul clap its hands and sing, and louder sing

For every misplaced stretch of Lycra under stress

Requires scarcely concealed readjusting

As cramped thighs tighten and hernias press

Nor is there escape from trapped wind, a blast

Echoes through the Over Sixties Salsa Class

 

 

Old buggers wheezing with knobbly knees on fire

As if in a volcanic lava chasm

Exchange advice on suitable attire

To combat chafing, without sarcasm

They raise their arms to shoulder height, no higher

To the cries of those with spines in spasm

With five minutes of torture to endure

Time stops on the Community Room floor

 

 

Once out of nature I shall never take

My bodily form from any natural thing

But such a form as Bootcamp instructors make

Of every sweating, heavy breathing being

Red faced, grimacing, desperate to fake

Some faint semblance of a sassy hip swing

Forgotten dignity, inhibitions crash

Victims of the Over Sixties Salsa Class