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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