Our Golden Years are on us,
though they’re less like gold than rust!
Our eyesight’s failing, hearing’s going,
knees are getting weak.
And every time we bend, we hear a loud, humiliating… creak.
We’re grateful that we still have hair,
even though it’s turning grey.
And we seem to be forgetting a little more each day.
Our lives are spent in searching
For our glasses and our keys.
If any of you see them, could you help us out here, please?
I find that as we look at me, nothing’s where it used to be.
Our chin is resting on our chest, a bad example to all the rest.
My bosom took a southern route, not even Wonderbra can help me
It seems we go to funerals at an ever increasing rate.
But, mercifully, not one is OURS, which is absolutely great.
So, even though our golden years are just a major drag,
and everything about us has developed quite a sag.
We’re still here on the planet in our Golden Years of rust,
and haven’t yet achieved that stage that’s known as
“Dust to dust!”