| How do I know my youth is all spent?
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| My get up and go has got up and went
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| In spite of it all, I’m able to grin
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| When I think of the places my get up has been
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| Old age is golden, I think I’ve heard said
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| But sometimes I wonder as I crawl into bed
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| My ears in a drawer, my teeth in a cup
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| My eyes on the table until I wake up
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| As sleep dims my vision, I say to myself
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| Is there anything else I should lay on the shelf?
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| But nations are warring and business is vexed
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| So I’ll stick around to see what happens next
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| When I was younger, my slippers were red
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| I could kick up my heels right over my head
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| When I was older my slippers were blue
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| But still I could dance the whole night thru
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| Now I am old, my slippers are black
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| I huff to the store and I puff my way back
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| But never you laugh, I don’t mind at all
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| I’d rather be huffing than not puff at all
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| I get up each morning and dust off my wits
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| Open the paper and read the obits
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| If I’m not there, I know I’m not dead
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| So I eat a good breakfast and go back to bed |