Your age, I’m afraid, spoke the boy who was lame,
Is rather ubiquitous today,
As you sit I hear the creak of your bones,
And notice your hair has turned grey,
Yet your peregrinations are vast in expanse,
Is your vigour yet faded away?

It may pay you to know, the feeble response came,
That once I was a boy just as you,
I played in the fields and ran in the grass,
And did all that young boys must do,
Yet to this date, I am here and hale as I was,
My vigour is not yet through,

Your age, I’m afraid, spoke the boy who was lame,
Must have made your vision something scanty,
I question whether you see clearly my face,
And I suppose it has saved you from vanity,
Yet I must inquire, if the blur of your book,
Ever might play with your sanity?

It may pay you to know, the feeble response came,
That some men truly are blind,
And while I am blessed with blurred shapes, my boy,
I know I have glasses to find,
And yet others still, sadly enough,
Are forced to see with their mind,

Your age I’m afraid, spoke the boy who was lame,
Would prove quite bothersome to me,
For, I’m sure you have noticed, I take great pride in my youth,
And to this date I remain free,
I have no ailments such as my knees or my back,
What a pleasure a youthful boy is to be,

It may pay you to know, the feeble response came,
That perhaps the other should be let talk,
I say! Silence my friend!
Your accusations must stop,
Yet while we converse, I think to myself,
My boy, at least I can walk!