Old age is golden, or so I’ve heard said,
As sleep dims my vision, I say to myself:
Is there anything else I should lay on the shelf?
When I was young, my slippers were red;
I could kick up my heels right over my head.
When I was older my slippers were blue,
But still I could dance the whole night through.
Now I am older, my slippers are black.
I get up each morning and dust off my wits,
Open the paper, and read the Cartoons.
If I’m not there, I know I’m not dead.
Still am not able to dust you off and keep on the shelf.
Some scars are best covered, though time has aged.
I am still not dead
Living in the golden old age.