He looks in the mirror; doesn’t like what he sees,
”Who is this stranger that’s looking at me?”
He remembers a time when his hair was thick,
To disguise the bald patches he shaves with a Bic.

His beard, when it grows, is as grey as his cat,
The six pack has gone and he’s begun to look fat,
His thighs were like tree trunks, they’re thinning as well,
His bum cheeks are sagging, I think you can tell.

A varicose vein runs down the back of his leg,
He’s gone past his prime, it has to be said,
But the tickers still ticking and the cogs still turn,
He’s an old dog, but still he can learn.

He could still teach, a trick here and there,
The young generation should still be aware,
That even though, the bodyworks going,
The engine inside; shows no signs of slowing.

Maybe not at his best, but nor his sell by date,
More Sunday dinners will be eaten from his plate,
A spot of corrosion, but he runs just fine,
He’s a vintage model, he’s like a fine wine.