Let Me/Not for Me

In the Guardian at the weekend, a collection of poets' new work about ageing. For me one of the most entertaining was Roger McGough: Not for Me a Youngman's Death. It includes:

My nights are rarely unruly. My days
of allmight parties are over, well and truly.
No mistresses no red sports cars
no shady deals no gangland bars
no drugs no fags no rock'n'roll
Time alone has taken its toll.

Compare with:

When I'm 73
and in constant good tumour
may I be mown down at dawn
by a bright red sports car
on my way home
from an allnight party

(Let Me Die a Youngman's Death - from the obvious 1967 anthology).

Reading the two poems together, written 43 years apart, is fascinating. (and by my reckoning, McGough is now 73). They play very richly off each other, although perhaps unsurprisingly the later poem has the last word:

Not for me a youngman's death
Not a domestic brawl in the hall
knife in the chest, death.
Not a drunken binge, dirty syringe
"Waste of a life" death.

The greyness of the sky is streaked
Along its width with shades of red;
The pity of the world has leaked
But who are these whose hands have bled?