August 9, 2013 chris
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There’s nothing
whatsoever the matter with me.
I’m just as healthy as I can be.
I have arthritis in both my knees.
And when I talk, I talk with a wheeze.
My pulse is weak, my blood is thin,
But I’m awfully well for the shape I’m in.

All my teeth have had to come out,
And my diet I hate to think about.
I’m overweight and I can’t get thin,
But I’m awfully well for the shape I’m in.

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

Old age is golden I’ve heard it said,
But sometimes I wonder, as I go to bed.
With my ears in a drawer, my teeth in a cup,
And my eyes on a shelf
 until I get up.

But I really don’t mind, when I think with a grin,
Of all the places my get up has been.
I get up each morning and dust off my wits,
Pick up the paper and read the “obits.”
If my name is missing, I’m therefore not dead,
So I eat a good breakfast and jump back in bed.

The moral of this, as this tale doth unfold,
Is that you and me, who are growing old,
It is better to say, “I’m fine” with a grin,
Than to let people know the shape we are in.
Author Unknown