Ringo, Grew Old, & Learned To Play Bingo. Poem by Michael Gale

When we get old, our bones do creak...
We get hard ta hearing, and can hardly speak.

There will one day, be a Beatle, who gets old, and his name will be Ringo...
He wont much want to gamble, except, perhaps to go to the parlor, to play Bingo.

Too bad Elvis is not alive? ...
Into a wheel chair, would he easily, survive?

He'd wish to shake and rattle and roll...
But in reality, he'd be lucky to want to be able to walk, as stroll.

This Elvis you see, was buried real nice...
In an nonmilitary like setting, all much better than mere unpoorably he would not set.

He, now is, better, off than just plain old, and nice.
We are all, very much lucky to live to be a hundred, yet, let alone, as much as, in years, as, twice.