Palindromic masterpiece from the New Yorker:

RE: NO GAS IN AGE? BEWARE.Warren, old as sin, am red. Lost—or reviled—a female. (No, a hag!) Elder, it passes old lot. Fossil. Lip sags, eh? Flesh sags. Poor devil! At one, nips.A store, cafe, zoo. "Pops." No, is elder, has gas till it's late. Menace. No bristle, few warts on nose. Hoots. Peels, eh? Park, late: talk, rap. He sleeps, too. (He's on no straw.We felt, sir: Bone. Cane. Metal.) Still, it sags. Ah! Red lesions pop, ooze. Face rots. A spine, not alive, droops. Gash self? He's (gasp) ill, is soft, old, loses sap, tired. Leg? Aha, one lame! Fade. Liver rots. Older man is sad loner, raw. Era we began is a goner