A Lament on the Middle Aged Brain
Perhaps there are lapses
In my synapses;
I try to read mapses
But just need napses.
I search and search across the globe
But cannot find my frontal lobe.
Though I endeavor to unearth
Those mislaid nouns, there is a dearth.
And every damn technology’s
Abstruse as Norse mythology.
The gadgets seem newfanglia
Without my basal ganglia.
So when your brain feels wrapped in gauze,
Unable to convey a clause,
This is a stage without applause:
You’re entering dementopause.