The Bard was no devotee of growing old
A plethora of deprecating verse he told

Suggesting that as one’s muscle disappears
One is less impressive too between the ears

The walking pace of late may be a little slow
As though I’m not sure I really want to go

The aged body seems to want to droop
A quality of many in our local group

Old neurons still fire at the speed of light
So ours can even now create insight 

There’s no age limit to find ways of living well
So long as they’re applied before the final bell

Yes, I’m no longer the man that once was me
I’m still working toward the man I’d like to be

The pace in that direction is slow that I admit
But I’m inching toward that goal, bit by bit