Growing Old Ungracefully
by: Bob Hinshaw
Lord have mercy, who is that in the mirror I view?
That can't be me with the gray-haired hue!
Seems only yesterday I was a jaunty thirty-five;
Now I'm reminded I'm nearing seventy-five!
What are those brown spots on my hands and face?
On top of my pate I observe a large bald space;
To further deflate my ego I wear a pair of specs
Alas, I'm becoming one of those mortal wrecks!
My teeth grin at me from a glass on the table,
And I have a cane handy to keep me stable;
In the morn as I arise I detect a creak;
Is that the bed springs or my bones making that squeak?
In church I must occupy the very front pew;
From the rear the preacher's words are hard to construe;
It takes me more time to shuffle around the block;
After all, I'm no longer a twenty-five year old jock!
Sometimes I feel that I'm falling apart,
But thankfully there are doctors their sevices to impart,
And if they can manage to keep me all patched up,
I'll get around, thank you, as well as any young pup!
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