The Centenarian
Great Grandfather was ninety—nine
And so it was our one dread,
That though his health was superfine
He’d fail to make the hundred.
Though he was not a rolling stone
No moss he seemed to gather:
A patriarch of brawn and bone
Was Great Grandfather.
He should have been senile and frail
Instead of hale and hearty;
But no, he loved a mug of ale,
A boisterous old party.
‘As frisky as a cold,’ said he,
'A man’s allotted span
I’ve lived but now I plan to be
A Centenarian.'
Then one night when I called on him
Oh what a change I saw!
His head was bowed, his eye was dim,
Down—fallen was his jaw.
Said he: 'Leave me to die, I pray;
I’m no more bloody use . . .
For in my mouth I found today—
A tooth that’s loose.'
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