Pensive, I brood the past day,
A number, that’s all, I try to say,
While decrepit, I am not,
With signs of it, I am wrought.
Credibly, I may still pass off,
As young, without anyone’s scoff,
But, the day isn’t far,
With wrinkles, I maybe marred.
I wear my grays in pride,
After all, that was to betide,
Wisdom, I await upon me,
Ripe and mellow, soon to be.