Three score and ten, the psalmist said,
    Shall measure the years of man.
We're given that, some more, some less,
    To do with what we can.
But all too soon, we realize
    That never were we told
What prices we'd be asked to pay
    Just to get this old.

With bifocals and hearing aids,
    And muscles that complain
Of morning moves, of cold, of damp,
    And any slightest strain,
And a back that's out about half the time,
    And teeth we need to put in,
We gather our parts in early dawn,
    When the day's about to begin.

Arthritic joints and feet that hurt
    As we greet the blossoming spring.
Knees will be reluctant to bend,
    When seeds to the garden we bring.
The wood pile takes a summer's work
    To cut and split by fall,
And shoveling snow is woefully slow,
    Or doesn't get done at all.

We see the surgeon now and again;
    He takes a few things out.
I've never known him to put one back,
    And most sincerely doubt
If, in this pitiful bag of bones,
    There's anything left to explore.
In consolation, if it doesn't hurt,
    We don't have it any more.

I don't believe this is punishment,
    Nor pay for profligate youth.
And I won't complain, but these are facts,
    And, if you want the truth,
I'm really not too anxious to leave
    This world of pain and strife.
Whatever else it's been, or might be,
    It's a very interesting life.