| There is nothing the matter with me |
| I'm as healthy as can be. |
| I have arthritis in both my knees |
| and when I talk, I talk with a wheeze. |
| My pulse is week, and my blood is thin, |
| But I'm awfully well for the shape I'm in. |
| |
| Arch suports I have for my feet, |
| Or I wouldn't be able to be on the street, |
| Sleep is denied me night after night, |
| But every morning I find I'm all right. |
| My memory is failing, my head's in a spin |
| But I'm awfully well for the shape I'm in. |
| |
| The moral is this as my tale I unfold |
| That for you and me who are growing old, |
| It's better to say I'm fine with a grin, |
| Than to let folks know the shape we are in. |
| |
| How do I know that my youth is all spent? |
| Well, my Get up and go has got up and went. |
| But I really don't mind when I think with a grin |
| Of all the grand places my Get up has bin. |
| |
| Old age is golden I've heard it said, |
| But, sometimes I wonder as I get into bed. |
| With my ears in the drawer, my teeth in a cup, |
| my eyes on the table until I wake up. |
| Ere sleep overtakes me, I say to myself, |
| Is there anything else I could lay on the shelf? |
| |
| When I was young my slippers were red, |
| I could kick my heels over my head. |
| When I was older my slippers were blue, |
| But still I could dance the whole night through. |
| Now I am old my slippers are black, |
| I walk to the store and puff my way back. |
| |
| I get up each morning and dust off my wits |
| and pick up the paper and read the "Obits", |
| If my name is still missing I know I'm not dead, |
| So I have a good breakfast and go back to bed. |
