by Anonymous There is nothing the matter with me. I'm as healthy as I can be. I have arthritis in both my knees And when I talk, I talk with a wheeze. My pulse is weak, and my blood is thin But I'm awfully well for the shape I'm in. Arch supports I have for my feet Or I wouldn't be able to be on the street. Sleep is denied me night after night, But every morning I find I'm all right. My memory is failing, my head's in a spin But I'm awfully well for the shape I'm in. The moral is this, as my tale I unfold, That for you and me who are growing old, It's better to say "I'm fine" with a grin Than to let folks know the shape we are in. How do I know that my youth is all spent? Well, my "get up and go" just got up and went. But I really don't mind when I think with a grin Of all the grand places my "get up" has been. Old age is golden, I've heard it said; But sometimes I wonder as I get into bed With my ears in the drawer my teeth in a cup, My eyes on the table until I wake up. Ere sleep overtakes me, I say to myself, "Is there anything else I could lay on the shelf?" When I was young my slippers were red, I could kick my heels over my head When I was older my slippers were blue, But I still could dance the whole night through. Now I am old, my slippers are black, I walk to the store and puff my way back. I get up each morning and dust off my wits And pick up the paper and read the obits. If my name is still missing, I know I'm not dead So I fix me some breakfast and go back to bed.
The end