Poetry Archives

Great Grandfather was ninety-nine
     And so it was our one dread,
That though his health was superfine
     He’d fail to make the hundred.
Though he was not a rolling stone
     No moss he seemed to gather:
A patriarch of brawn and bone
               Was Great Grandfather.

He should have been senile and frail
     Instead of hale and hearty;
But no, he loved a mug of ale,
     A boisterous old party.
‘As frisky as a cold,’ said he,
     ‘A man’s allotted span
I’ve lived but now I plan to be
               A Centenarian.’

Then one night when I called on him
     Oh what a change I saw!
His head was bowed, his eye was dim,
     Down-fallen was his jaw.
Said he: ‘Leave me to die, I pray;
     I’m no more bloody use . . .
For in my mouth I found today—
               A tooth that’s loose.’