GROWING OLD AND GREY

GROWING OLD AND GREY

There ain’t no fun,
When me silver hairs appear,
Sitting on your bum,
Year after blooming year.

Arthritis in me knees,
Pollen makes me sneeze,
Me bones begin to ache,
Even in a summer breeze.

There ain’t no fun,
When golden years creep in,
You’re sitting there trying,
But you’re losing as you begin.

You try your best to run,
Like you used to do,
To stand up tall and proud,
But your legs won’t carry you.

You’re no longer in the crowd,
Watching people passing by,
Sitting there upon your bum,
With a tear within your eye.

You watch the daylight fade,
As evening turns to dusk,
Where have all the years gone?
And why grow old, we must?

Once I loved like lovers do,
Now I haven’t got a clue,
I forget what I’ve just said,
And what I’ve just been through.

And if a man came calling,
With romance on his mind,
I’d probably forget his name,
And what he’d come to find.

I’d look at him and say,
“Excuse me, who are you?”
He’d say, “I’m here for loving!”
I’d say, “That’ll never do!”

There ain’t no fun,
In growing old and grey,
When bits of you start aching,
And memories slip away.

But there’s one good thing,
I’ll say it while I may,
You might be getting older,
But it’s still nice to play!

The golden years don’t glitter,
But sometimes they still glow,
And although I’m getting older,
There’s plenty I still know.

I forget what I was saying,
Then make a brand-new line,
For even when me memory slips,
This imagination’s mine.

Me knees complain,
Me eyes grow tired,
Me silver hair’s on show,
But there’s a girl inside me.

A girl who still believes,
In magic and the stars,
Who dreams of distant places,
And journeys near and far.

She still remembers laughter,
And the wonderful gift of love,
The moonlight on her window,
And twinkling stars above.

Although me feet don’t dance,
Me pen still dances free,
Across the pages of me life,
Where I can still be me.

So let the years come creeping,
With all their aches and pain,
I’ll gather up me memories,
And turn them into rhyme again.

I might just lose me glasses,
Forget why I’ve opened the door,
But I’ve still got imagination,
And a thousand stories more.

So don’t you go feeling sorry,
For this woman growing old,
Not everything that glitters,
Has to be made of gold.

I’m not finished with me living,
I’ve still got dreams to see,
And though the years have changed me,
I’m still here, still me.