Home Life This Poem About Old Age Is More Than Honest, It Is Hilarious

This Poem About Old Age Is More Than Honest, It Is Hilarious

They sometimes say that there are two things we all need to face in our life; death and taxes. Most of us will try to avoid them if possible but we realize we are moving in that direction each and every day. In the end, you have a choice.

You can either stress over the situation and let it fester in our mind or we can embrace it and perhaps even have some fun with it. That is what the author of this poem decided to do. It was written by Constance O’Neon in 1953 and it expresses our feelings about growing old in the funniest way. Enjoy!

I’m Fine, Thank You
There is nothing the matter with me
I’m as healthy as can be.
I have arthritis in both my knees
And when I talk, I talk with a wheeze,
My pulse is weak and my blood is thin,
But I’m awfully well for the shape I’m in.

Arch supports I have for my feet,
Or I wouldn’t be able to go on the street.
Sleep is denied me night after night,
But every morning I find I’m all right,
My memory is failing, my head’s in a spin
But I’m awfully well for the shape I’m in.

The moral is this – as my tale I unfold,
That for you and me who are growing old,
It’s better to say, “I’m fine” with a grin,
Than to let folks know the shape we’re in.

How do I know that my youth is all spent?
Well my ‘get up and go’ has got up and went.
But I don’t really mind when I think with a grin,
Of all the grand places ‘my get up’ has been.

Old age is golden, I’ve heard it said,
But sometimes I wonder as I get into bed,
With my ears in the drawer, my teeth in the cup,
My eyes on the table until I wake up.
Ere sleep overtakes me, I think to myself
Is there anything else I could lay on the shelf?

When I was young, my slippers were red;
I could kick my heels right over my head.
When I got older, my slippers were blue;
But still, I could dance the whole night through.
But now I am old, my slippers are black;
I walk to the store and puff my way back.

I get up each day and dust off my wits,
And pick up the paper and read the ‘obits’.
If my name is still missing, I know I’m not dead –
So I have a good breakfast and go back to bed.