I can't help it if I'm old,
My blood is thin and my feet are cold.
My bones all creak, I've got the gout.
I now sink in where I did stick out.
I can't help it if I pine
for another slower time
when I could bend and run and shout,
and chase the fellows all about.
The time just flew, I don't know where
and now I'm in a rocking chair.
My hair won't curl, my step won't spring,
my poor old voice won't even sing.
I've had some fun, I've done my share.
I hope I did it all with flair.
When I go, I hope it's quick
and folks say "There goes a foxy chick."
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.