I’m getting old, what shall I do,

When bits start dropping off.

My hairs fell out, my brain is dead

I’ve lost the plot, my family said,

I cannot walk, in case I fall

I really don’t make sense at all,

I cannot hear, I hardly see,

Oh what is to become of me.

My bones all shake,

My knee joints squeak,

My shoulders lock

My ankles creak.

I’m getting more forgetful and mixed up in the head

I know that I’m still living, and I’m not among the dead,

I got used to my arthritis,

To my dentures I’m resigned,

I can manage my bifocals

But God I miss my mind!

I’m getting old, what shall I do

At the grand old age of 82.

Bob Lowe,