Don’t get old,
the old man said,
and nodded his balding head.
Old’s a disease
you never can cure
and sometimes you’re
better off dead.
Do you think there’s a pill
that can cure all the ills
or a tonic to end
all the aching?
A powder to take
to keep me awake,
or stop these old hands
from shaking?
You look like a fool
when you slobber and drool,
or can’t remember your name.
You soil your pants,
forget how to dance,
and nothing is ever the same.
You look at the world
through Coke-bottle lenses,
your hearing leaves you
for good.
You’re guaranteed a loss
of your senses,
and everything tastes like wood.
No, don’t get old,
the old man said,
and scratched his balding head.
Old’s a disease
you never can cure
and sometimes you’re better
off dead.

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