And is this now my eighty-seventh year,
Or has some time warp come to interfere,
And I am sixty-two, or even thirty-five,
Still acute and very much alive?
When did I sleep and fail to keep a count,
It surely can’t have come to that amount,
For yesterday I danced a red-head at the Palais,
And did a tricky tango there with Sally.
Ah me, I used to be the best beau at the ball,
Could have my pick of ladies short or tall,
Now if I want to make a click,
I have to find an old maid with a stick.
Yet still my heart can miss a beat,
If at the church or in the street,
I meet a dark haired maid,
Or blonde with hair up in a braid,
With lips that tempt a stolen kiss, what bliss.
I still remember that,
But all they want to do is chat.
Behave yourself, my daughter cries,
And lifts her eyes and gives great sighs.
Behave like that, you’ll never go to heaven.
Hang on a bit, I say, I’m only eighty-seven.