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.
Sleep is denied me night after night,
But every morning I find I'm alright.
My memory is failing, my head's in a spin,
But I'm awfully will for the shape I'm in.
How do I know my youth is all spent?
Well, my "get up and go" has got up and went.
Bit I really don't mind when I think with a grin,
Of all the grand places my "get up has bin.
"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 could still dance the whole night through.
Now I am old my slippers are black,
I walk to the shop 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 have a good breakfast . . . . and face what's ahead.
from a teatowel . . . .