Old people are often slow,
In fact they don't have much go.
They are often deaf and miss the point,
They are inflicted with Arthur Ritus in their joints.
Their bowels are loose,
And they smell like a goose,
Their G-string is a seniors pad,
In case they cough or laugh at dad.
But hidden inside are memories of a child,
Joyful thoughts of days without pain,
Quiet peaceful times of splashing in the rain,
Black gum boots and plastic raincoats,
No mum to collect me, just me running wild.
Take time to listen and hear stories of a foreign land,
That existed right here in your town, in places we now can't stand.
Sit down and have a cuppa, crank up the LP record player,
You will hear songs from forever, but best of all watch old faces become clever, again.
To hear stories of long days before,
Improves you, makes you more,
Considerate, compassionate, deeper, wider, nicer.
Take time from your running, stop and enjoy,
It is your history, it made you who you are,
More than just owner of a fancy car.
Smile a little, eat cake, drink tea, sit quiet on plump lounges and listen, talk slow,
And be human, loving and allow,
An old person to be a hero, it is good for you, your turn is coming.
