As I sit growing older
And feel the twinges in my shoulder
I wonder why the nights seem colder
When I lay within my bed.
My senses seem to addle in the main
Except the ones that give me pain
And those special ones that come with rain
Or after I am fed.
I cannot run so fast
My breath is hoarse and rasped
I feel my last is gasped
As the weary path I tread.
I forget where once remembered
Without doubts was unencumbered
At nights I soundly slumbered
When young and blood was red.
Now grey, my hair is falling,
I dream of angels calling
So I wake to keep them stalling
And stop them lighting on my head.
Then I rise and feel the smart
As creaking joints refuse to start
I know at least I'm not on the cart
And I'm still alive, not dead!