I sit and hope it isn't me
If I reach the age of ninety three
Who sits alone in a rocking chair
Ears the only place I have some hair
Grumbling often as I sleep
Not knowing the day, or time, or week
Not seeing a sole or knowing who
Might visit me without asking you
You have my permission to switch me off
Because by then, I will have had enough
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem