I’m too old to be a rock star,
too young to drive a big car.
With a Bugs Bunny brain and body of Fudd,
both barrels blaze, half’s a dud.
In my high fidelity cartoon I animate,
pages fanned, notes came late.
Rhythm’s slowed, meter’s now feet,
when the song remains the same chapter’s complete.
Yet I’ve albums to fill and records to break,
while my quill gently weeps for time I ache.