The Hundred Years Of Man Poem by Adams King

At five
Are kind with innocent eyes
At ten
Are smart and looking cute
At fifteen
full of tricks and telling lies
At twenty
Handsome which all dress suit
At thirty
Matured to touch a woman's breast
At forty
Macho with big broad chest
At fifty
With children to call his own
At sixty
To rest from youthful stress
At seventy
Close to death's own throne
At eighty
A sage with less foolishness
At ninety
A child he then becomes
At hundred
O! Death must surely come