ARE YOU SINGING THE OLD-AGE BLUES...?

     

         Bald and toothless, growing old; hard of hearing, bent and stooped.

         My limbs won't do a thing they're told, and in my boxers I've just pooped.  

         Although I creak when I get up, and walking can be quite a grind,

         and through a straw my soup I sup, and cannot keep a thought in mind;

         I try to keep stiff upper lip, and not to let things get me down,

         but there's no firmness in my grip, and gravity gives me a frown.

         Oh, curse old age and all it brings, it doesn't come alone, it's true.

         I need a whole new set of springs, in order to keep up with you.

         I'm past my prime and on the heap, I've got a case of "old-age blues".

         Recalling my last lover's leap, it never would've made the news.

         I never had much luck with dames, they always went for other men,

         but lust no longer now inflames my passions past a count of ten.

         I'm yellow, wrinkled, cannot see, and fear the doctor when he calls;

         I'll doubtless fail my "M.O.T.", but must accept whate'er befalls.

         When old friends die and are despatched, it's not compassion that I lack;

         from funerals I stay detached, at my age, not worth coming back.

         So pity me, my life's near done; this battle I'm destined to lose.

         And listen to my words, my son - one day you'll sing the "old-age blues".

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