An imaginative thing -
Thinking of future so far off,
Of a time when my face
Has succumbed to time and lost its elasticity
But still, breathes in her chamomile tea

And by this, I find myself in an old woman's home
Here we are, you and I
Haggard, perhaps bitter, and yet -
We are still those girl things who smile and laugh
Finding ourselves doing much of what the same we did today

So there we would sadly be
Aged hags with children who put them away
Yet our despair was not yet wasted on the youth
Still dancing, still screaming, still trembling
A lifetime of girlish insanities did not calm us
And neither shall retired living

Though perhaps, death loomed over us,
As is often obvious when dealing with the elderly -
Despair was not wasted on the inevitable
For on our charts, which the nurses read in the evening -
'Serve three marijuana cigarettes and chamomile tea'