The fit, and young at heart, retired
Compose the ranks I mean.
They’re not within employment mired.
They’re known as the Grey Team.

Their kids, who’ve now left home with zeal,
Think Ma and Pa bereft.
The truth is, parents really feel
Delight – ‘at last they’ve left!!’

Some Grey Team folk are fifty-five
And life expectancy
Might cause them to be still alive
To reach a century.

Their pensions came from final pay -
The cash had not yet gone.
Unlike the workers of today
Who must slog on and on.

You’ll find them at the cinema
And on the eighteenth green.
You do not have to look too far
To see just what I mean.

They ramble the footpaths and tracks
And take-in country views,
Descend on village pubs in packs,
Form supermarket queues.

They garden, cook and walk the dog.
They join societies.
Try music, acting, write a blog,
Or learn some Cantonese.

And then there is the world to save -
Some eco-project calls.
Then Glastonbury or to a rave.
Or off to shopping malls.

Days out and classes with their mates,
And sports and meals and more -
Although they get concession rates,
A lot are hardly poor.

A lifetime’s skills to redeploy
For club and charity.
They’re, to the Coalition’s joy,
'The Big Society'.

The fact is, there’s no time to laze -
No chance to rest or shirk.
With hobbies and the holidays
When was there time to work?

About retirement they must lie
To every employee,
As those must toil until they die
In this economy.

Look sad and fake sincerity -
Then say with a feigned sob:
‘We’re lost at home. You’re so lucky
To have a proper job.’

There are still those who truly mean
Retirement they mind.
A special group of trained Grey Team
Now shoots them, to be kind.

When the employed have left their homes
By car or bus or train,
A hidden secret army comes
From those who then remain.