I still look through young man’s, eyes though skin and bones are aging,
My mind’s eye disagrees with it, despite what mirrors are displaying.
How could I have these coltish thoughts, I should be out there playing,
Some say it’s time to pack it in, and spend more time with praying.
This cannot be, I shall not let, this existence be simply delaying,
the inevitable, the lonely slide, death’s scythe in tense belaying.
so off I go to enjoy some romp, though hair is quickly graying,
I’d rather spend my time in sowing than on the winter haying.