Better With Age

Better With Age I’m actually getting better with age To illustrate this, here is my gauge The spots on my skin – think of a young leopard The cane in my hand – think of a young Sheppard And now that I squint – think of a young Clint (Eastwood) The grey in my hair – now I look debonair Though my jowls droop a little I feel fit as a fiddle And though I wear glasses, the gals still make passes My six-pack’s matured to a tight mini-keg And I could run miles (except for one leg) There’s a skip in my steps like I’m dancing on air (It’s just orthopedics – I now wear a pair) And the creaks and the groans that you hear when I move Is the gypsy in me getting down with the groove When I look in the mirror I still see someone young And my memory sticks on the tip of my tongue Yes, I’m actually getting better with age If I recalibrate what I use for a gauge