Will I still make sense when I'm old and decrepit
Will my foresight stick when my nearsight's gone
Will my words still flow when my brain is a raisin
Or will I chide kids from my beige front lawn
From sage percipience to senile
If there's a painted line between I'll
Gladly keep a foot on either side
Will I still have friends when I'm old and decrepit
Will I know their names, and will they know me
Will I be the last one among them a-standin'
Or will they crack jokes in my eulogy
When I'm a hundred-thirty-seven
If they won't let me into heaven
Find me outside loungin' in the clouds
Will I still make sense when I'm old and decrepit
And we must infer that I make sense now
Will I still spout truth as a cough-drop-a-saurus
Or just shake my fist raising one eyebrow
For every wrinkle in the archive
If I'm still buzzin' like a beehive
I'll build my castle 'til I hit the sand