“Old age is not for cissies”,
Said a lady whose name I forget.
But I try, so I still go to work
For reasons no one would guess.
I cogitate, you see, on this
And that, then sadly lose
The thread. The time, I hear,
Is out of joint, & so, alas, is my hip.
Worse still is social intercourse,
When drinks and canapes figure
And the volume of voices rises,
Then goes right over my head.
I’d rather walk all the day long
Under trees and babble to birds;
And in winter pick up those ladies
Who’ve fallen – on ice, I mean.