We seniors are constantly being criticized for every conceivable deficiency of the modern world, real or imaginary.  And we do take responsibility for all we have done and we do not blame others.  However, upon reflection, we would like to point out that we were not the ones who took: the melody out of the music, the pride of of appearance, the courtesy out of driving, the romance out of love, the commitment out of marriage, the responsibility out of parenthood, the togetherness out of the family, the learning out of education, the service out of patriotism, the Golden Rule from rulers, the nativity scene out of cities, the civility out of behavior, the refinement out of language, the dedication out of employment, the prudence out of spending, the ambition out of achievement, or God out of government and school.  And we are certainly not the ones who eliminated patience and tolerance from personal relationships and interaction with others.  And we do understand the meaning of patriotism and remember those who fought and died for our country.  Does anybody under the age of 50 even know the lyrics to the Star Spangled Banner?
    Yes, I’m a senior citizen.  I’m the life of the party even if it lasts past 8 p.m.  I’m very good at opening childproof caps with a hammer.  I usually want to go home before I get where I’m going.  I’m awake many hours before my body will allow me to get up.  I smile the whole time because I have no idea what you’re saying.  I’m very good at telling stories over and over and over and over.  And I am so cared for, long term care, eye care, private care, health care, dental care.  I’m not really grouchy.  I just don’t like traffic, waiting, crowds, lawyers, loud music, unruly kids, Toyota commercials, Tom Brokaw, Dan Rather, barking dogs, politicians, and a few other things I can’t seem to remember right now.  I’m sure that everything I can’t find is in a secure place, somewhere.
     I’m wrinkled, saggy, lumpy and that’s just my left leg.  I’m beginning to realize that getting old is not for wimps.  I’m starting to wonder, if you’re only as old as you feel, how can I possibly be alive at the age of 150?  I’m a walking storeroom of facts.  But I seemed to have lost the key to the storeroom door.  Yes, I am  senior citizen and I think I’m having the time of my life.

 
Twas the month before Christmas and all through the town, Not a Tiger fan was stirring, not one could be found. 

Christmas was coming, but no one could care, The stench of defeat still hung in the air. 

Dabo was tossing, sleepless in bed, While visions of Gamecocks still danced in his head. 

He was wearing his cap, which read, “ACC!” And trying to forget that SEC Defeat! 

When out on the lawn there arose such a clatter, He sprang from the bed to see what was the matter. 

He stood at the window, his lower lip quivered, The lesson was hard the Ol’ Ball Coach delivered. 

The moon on the breast of the Carolina grass, showed Gamecock footprints from the game that had passed. 

When, what did he see while adjusting his hat, But a great Cock-a-boose, pulled by ragged, orange cats. 

With a cool-handed driver, he frightfully stood, Dabo knew in a moment, it must be Norwood. 

The cats were so tired, they pulled with a strain, So Eric beat them and shouted, and called them by name. 

Now, Spiller! Now, Ford! Now, Ellington and Parker! On, Daquan! On, Palmer! On Austin, and Harper! 

We’ll see Williams Brice again ‘fore I’m done, And run the Wild Cock one more time, just for fun. 

As the footballs within the wild “Cock and Fire” fly, Dumbfounding the DB’s, as they watch them go by, 

Around and around, the poor Tigers flew, With a Cock-a-boose full of Gamecocks, and Stephen Garcia too! 

Then the Gamecocks stood guard o’er the Tigers out back, As they painted poor Brad Scott’s house garnet and black. 

As Dabo drew in his hand, and was turning around, The Ghost of Steve Spurrier was seen floating down. 
He was dressed all in fur from his toes to his chin, He had made a new coat from some old Tiger skins. 

Several more Tigers, he had flung on his back, Jacoby, Richard Jackson and Chad Deihl, in fact. 

His eyes – how they twinkled! His countenance – how merry! He was thinking of the team his young Gamecocks had buried. 

Then suddenly above the Great Spectre appeared, The names of all the coaches he had whipped through the years. 

The victory torches still smoldered beneath, And the smoke it encircled his head like a wreath. 

But Dabo stood blank-faced, his stomach still queasy, He knew that next year was not going to be easy. 

He was sad and disgruntled; a mere shell of a man, And Steve laughed when he saw him, and thought of HIS FANS. 

They stood face to face, Dabo wanted to run. He could hear the theme song from 2001. 

The Ghost spoke not a word, but went straight to his plan, Leaving Stephon Gilmore bobbleheads for all those at hand. 

And raising his visor in salute as on cue, He said, “See ya next year!”, and he faded from view. 

Norwood sprang to the Cock-a-boose, to the cats said, “Let’s go!”, The Tigers all cried saying, “No, Eric, please no!” 

But I heard him exclaim, when they couldn’t be seen, “Merry Christmas to all, 34 – 17!”