sneaking up so gradually.
Taking hearing, sight, and smell;
making stairs a living hell.
Yes, I've lived past sixty-three
and I've seen some history.
I've become a bard, a rhymer,
sitting in my soft recliner.
When I start my long recital,
it's not treated like it's vital;
my kids have their fish to fry
and don't care if I speechify.
And so I mark the passing term,
slowing down to food for worm.
Sage advice I have but little:
Don't open cans marked 'Peanut Brittle'.
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