OLD AGE
I dread the thought of growing old
It fills me with despair.
For when I look in a mirror
I don’t see myself there.
I see a light of ageing days
And mutton dressed as lamb
With wrinkled face receding hair
And a nose like strawberry jam.
My memory’s like the weather,
Some good days and some bad.
My bones creak like the garden gate,
I swung on as a young lad.
But then again at least I’m here
And not on t’other side.
Cos looks don’t matter anymore,
When you’ve died.
By
Alfred Weston
© Copyright Reserved 2003
I dread the thought of growing old
It fills me with despair.
For when I look in a mirror
I don’t see myself there.
I see a light of ageing days
And mutton dressed as lamb
With wrinkled face receding hair
And a nose like strawberry jam.
My memory’s like the weather,
Some good days and some bad.
My bones creak like the garden gate,
I swung on as a young lad.
But then again at least I’m here
And not on t’other side.
Cos looks don’t matter anymore,
When you’ve died.
By
Alfred Weston
© Copyright Reserved 2003
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