Brooding over my face in the looking glass
I perceive the geography of bliss and grieve
a countenance of good luck and chances lost
and inalterable settings in deep, harsh furrows

How much I loathe growing old, can’t bear it
but I can’t avoid, can’t avoid it, must grow old
sheer stilted nonsense of growing old in dignity
of being proud of drooping skins and wrinkles

Growing old is, is really nothing for cowards
it’s, it’s a sickness incurable, no, can’t be healed
how take courage when things aren’t any longer
how bitter when old hearts slowly grow cold.