When did I get old

we are all drones on the freeway today hardly any excitement this side of the bay then two crazy racing drivers head our way They whip past me, one yellow, one gray Youngsters I think rolling my hazel eyes Unsure actually, their windshields dark as spies But they drive like maniacs, like I did at twenty-three When did I turn into old aged sourdough me? I send a prayer down that freeway for them two children of someone, named Mary and Jim Crashing would be devastating for all of us wanting to join them in their speeding, I give a cuss. never thought oldsters were any fun Yet now I have turned into one.