Some say seventy-five is three-quarters alive.
I’ll make the best of one-fourth that remains.
They say it sneaks up quietly, old age and all that jive.
My brawn may be long gone, but I’ve got brains.
I can’t run fast. I can’t walk far. I rest after the stairs.
I try to eat food that won’t make me die.
I tend to forget some things but it seems nobody cares.
My sense of humor remains wry and dry.
Don’t want to reach a hundred. I see no sense in that.
To live beyond one’s time’s often a gaffe.
I’ll know time’s drawing near when I can’t pick up a bat.
And that it’s time to go when I can’t laugh.