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 SIGN
OF THE TIMES?
There
is nothing the matter with me,
I'm really as healthy as I could possibly be.
I've arthritis in my hands, my back and my knees,
And when I speak, I talk with a wheeze.
My pulse is so weak and my blood it is thin,
But I'm awfully well for the shape that I'm in.
Arch
supports I wear on my feet,
Or I wouldn't be able to stroll down the street.
Sleep is denied me, night after night,
But I wake every morning and find I'm all right.
My memory's failing, my head's in a spin,
But I'm awfully well for the shape that I'm in.
How
do I know that my youth is all spent?
Well "my get up and go" has got up and went.
But I really don't mind, when I recall with a grin,
Of all the grand places, my "get up" has been.
Old
age is golden I've heard it is said,
But sometimes I wonder as I get into bed,
With my wig on the table, my teeth in a cup,
Glass eye in a drawer until I wake up.
As sleep overtakes me I say to myself:
"Is there anything else I could lay on the shelf?"
I
get up each morning and dust off my wits,
And pick up the papers and read the obits.
If my name is still missing, I know I'm not dead,
So I have a good breakfast and go back to bed.
The
moral is this, as my tale I unfold,
That for us all who are now growing old,
It's better to say "I'm fine" with a grin,
Than to let folks know the shape that we're in.
Contributed
by Noel James
January 2001
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