Face fell in, skin is grizzlin’,
rapier wit’s no more sizzlin’;
I’m such a sad sight,
give girls and lads fright.
Wattle ’neath my chin is hanging sad.

Now I say lots of blue words;
in the day, I used few words.
My diction is wrong, and thick is my pong.
Wattle of thin skin is saggin’ bad.

As to infrastructure, I’m an old man…
like ancient potholes all over town.
As to ingotstructure, I’m a gold man,
although I’ve got a bridge that’s falling down.

Early on I retire;
9:00 is fine, but no higher!
I can’t stay awake
Even in earthquakes:
Noggin has been dimmed in slumberland.

Bridge infrastructure’d make me a troll man;
Underneath I’d Grimmly stick around.
When someone crossed, I would be no droll man,
but neither would I gobble crossers down.

Make me a toasty fire…
heat my joints, not desire.
Rarely make that grade…
don’t care if I’m laid.
Warmin’ of the skin will make me glad.