There's nothing the matter with me
For I'm as healthy as can be,
I have arthritis in both my knees
And when I breathe I wheeze.
My pulse is weak, my blood is thin
But I'm awful well for the shape I'm in.
Arch supports I need for my feet
Or I wouldn't be able to be on the street.
My memory's failing my head's in a spin
But I'm awful well for the shape I'm in.
The moral of this as my tale I unfold
Is for you all who are growing old.
To rather say "I'm fine", with a grin
Than to let folk know the shape you're in.
How do I know that my youth is spent?
When my "get up and go" got up and went.
But I really don't mind as I recall with a grin
The grand old places my "get up" has been.
Old age is golden, I've heard it said,
But sometimes I wonder…for when I get into bed,
I keep my ears in a drawer, my teeth in a cup,
My eyes on a table where they stay till I wake up.
And as sleep overtakes me I mutter to myself
Is there anything else I should've left on the shelf?
And I get up each morning and dust off my wits
Pick up the newspaper and read the obits
And if my name is missing I know I'm not dead,
So I have a good breakfast and go back to bed.
 

Empangeni, 1997

Back to Poems