When you look like Quasimodo
And your eyes have lost their glint
And you’re ancient as a dodo
Although not yet quite extinct
And you feel averse to match them
When the young girls sweetly smile
For you know you could not catch them
If they chose to run a mile
Then you know you’ve reached your nadir
On yon bonny banks and braes
For it is no longer May, dear
But the autumn of your days
And might I just add that these things are all relative. Of
course they are. It’s just what happens when you finally convince yourself,
against all your natural instincts, that you’re definitely not thirty two any more.
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