When you're reaching old age and life's final page
And you're hounded by trivial ills,
When your power's on skids, when you cow-tow to your kids,
And forget how to swallow your pills,

When you can't drive anymore and can't get to the store,
That's when your kids become warders.
Your kids, hard as stone, say, "You can't live alone,"
And you -- well, you have to take orders.

You may weep, you may wail, but the sign says "For Sale."
You're about to be homeless, but cared for.
And so you adjust as all of us must
To that end that we've seldom prepared for.

You look back in wonder at each triumph and blunder
And wish that the latter were fewer.
With roles in reverse, you forfeit your purse
And try not to be a boo-hooer.