I'm well past the peak of my halcyon years

My date with my Maker inexorably nears

I've started to lose contemporary peers

I've still got the breath, though, to shout
“I'm 74, not out”.

 

I've got up to stunts that's more stupid than brave

And several ended a mighty close shave

That only good fortune kept me from the grave

I've lived a charmed life, there's no doubt

To make 74, not out.

 

I need a new hip and I need a new knee

I'm ready for bed when I've had my tea

I'm stiff of a morning but though I might be

Plagued with arthritis and gout

I'm still 74, not out.

 

My hearing is poor and so is my sight

And getting my socks on is always a fight

My mirror is honest but less than polite

And asks “What keeps you alive?”

I tell it “To make 75”.

 

I'm lucky indeed The Great Umpire of All

Kept down his finger when “Owzat?” was called

I'm left in no doubt that I'm in his thrall

And here by dint of His Grace

To occupy this space.

 

But nevertheless he'd not intercede

Despite all my prayers in which I would plead

For a body like Atlas, but rather that he'd

Let Old Father Time take his toll

As I drifted towards his plug hole.

 

So Time's winged chariot bears me along

Its wheels turn insidiously, silent but strong

It has no reverse gear, so false hope is wrong

The clock hands will not turn about

Still, I'm 74, not out.