As we slowly decay on our journey to death,
To the time when we take our last mortal breath,
There\'s one myth we preserve in our saying that age
Is just one little number on our lives\' splendid stage.
I\'ll agree with you, buddy, but to one certain point,
As I feel its advance in my body\'s each joint
It\'s a number all right, but a number of what?
I say: with it we count our coming to naught.
It\'s the number of wrinkles around your eyes,
It\'s the number of groans and tired old sighs,
It\'s the number of creaks as you walk up the stairs,
It\'s the number of backaches that you have to bear,
It\'s the number of layers of fat \'round your waist,
It\'s the number of years that you must remain chaste,
\'Cause no woman will cast her eye\'s sensous dart,
At the fat, bald, senile and dirty old fa*t...
It\'s the number of hairs you find in your sink,
It\'s the number of age spots the color of ink,
It\'s the number of teeth that fall out of your gums,
It\'s the number of friends who are also old bums
Just like you, with pink wattles underneath their chins
And a number of ugly, and toothless, old grins.
It\'s the number of jobs you don\'t qualify for
Since because of your age they will hire you no more.
It\'s the number of salesmen that call you at home,
With that cemet\'ry plot that they want you to own.
But the saddest of all in this grisly age math,
As we scuttle along on our journey to death
Is the number most painful to me and to you:
It\'s the number of dreams that just didn\'t come true.
It\'s the number of countries we\'ve visited not,
It\'s the number of women that left us to rot,
It\'s the number of dollars that we didn\'t earn,
It\'s the number of all things for which we once yearned,
But we couldn\'t obtain them although we'd tried,
So we simply gave up, then got old and then died.
Yes, it\'s true that by numbers we our age count,
But for losers who age, greater is the amount.
