I might not have as much hair on my head
as sprouts in ragged tufts from ears and nose,
and stairs up which my former steps had sped
I now must take more slowly, I suppose;
I may not stand as handsome as I was
back when I drank from youth's blue crystal springs,
nor half the loverboy--but that's because
I've spent my energy on other things;
I'm not the strapping lad who stole your heart
with compliments, good looks, and poetry;
I'm now a grim, cantankerous old fart
whose finer self's a fading memory.
I belch, I stink, I grumble, gripe, and groan--
but don't it beat the pants off being alone?