Growing Old The memory is shot Hands constantly shake Am I losing the plot? My joints always ache. I've lost most of my teeth And all of my hair What lies underneath That oft vacant stare? A distant daydream Of fond souvenirs Or deaf as I seem Just wax in my ears. It's not by design I accumulate ills. I've turned infantine On tablets and pills. Lotions and potions Towel and pad Even my motions Examined, how sad. And as for the sex Of those halcyon days I'll just get my specs And read what it says On this bottle I've got The writing's so small What a load of old rot Viagra cures all.