The Fine Print

There's the stuff they never tell you when you're young and full of vim,

Of how your gut will swell quite large and your vision grow quite dim,

Your joints will ache, your hair fall out but sprout forth from your ears,

And you'll lie awake each sleepless night a-listing all your fears.

You'll fiddle with your glasses and read things at arm's length,

You'll never win a race again but be pleased to come in tenth,

Going up-hill will defeat you and young lovers make you retch,

And you'll find your weekly shopping is an ordeal just to fetch.

There'll be no-one who remembers what seems like only yesterday,

You'll hum a tune and folk will say, well that's an oldie, anyway,

But you'll take a pill and end it all when things get really bad,

And you hear yourself opining in the voice of your own Dad.