with apologies to Mr. Milne
Creep, creep, the wrinkles creep
And grey creeps in my hair
And round my waist, and at my hips
I'm getting wider there.
If I should go play tennis
Next day it is my luck
To feel as if my arm had been
run over by a truck.
My children jump in to the pool-
I think the water's much too cool.
Instead I sit and read a book
And think about what I should cook.
I used to go to plays and shows,
go dancing, singing in the street.
It seems like too much trouble now-
I'm just feeling kind of beat.
If I should live to seventy-two
That means I'm half-way there!
I think I'll sit and rest a while
And ponder o'er each weary mile
That lies behind, and still ahead,
Or maybe I'll just go to bed.