I can't believe you were once a young man.
I've tried, but I can't picture you as anything other than
the guy with the thin white hair and the feeble laugh you laugh
as you patiently wait the day when flags will fly at half staff
in memory of those days long gone
when you were the bees knees; when every dawn
brought a new adventure, and the women slipped you
numbers because they loved seeing you act a fool
when you were young.

Now your wife just happens to be dead,
and all your friends are too old to get out of bed,
and I wonder what goes through your head
when you listen to people half as old as you
trying to tell you what to do.
I bet you picture them getting old,
and in your head you see them losing control
of all the body parts that used to do what they were told
when they were young.