There was an old man from East Coring,

Who could barely get up in the morning,

Though very unfit,

His sledgehammer wit,

Made your time spent with him far from boring.

I must say I soundly agree,

When you say youth is no guarantee,

Though they often look bold,

Many youngsters are old,

I dare say, even older than me.

You mention the feeling of youth,

Well now, let me tell you the truth,

When I tie my own shoe,

I turn purple, then blue,

Then fall over, head first, on my tooth.

Few things left I can do by myself,

Many years since I last reached that shelf,

Bones reduced to a patchwork,

My eyes count on guesswork,

My mind seldom sure of itself.

Feeling young, a sensation so tender,

Is something I cannot remember,

As far as I know,

I was always this slow,

Annoyed, fed up, vexed, quick to temper.

Old man, you sound irky and bitter,

Your reasoning no more than a whitter,

Seniority’s strong,

Plus it doesn’t last long,

Live well, leave the bickering to Twitter.