Dad has really grown old I must say,
One look at him and you wouldn’t agree with what I say,
He still looks young with hardly any strands of grey,
And his face is still taut with no wrinkles or lines in the way,
Then why do I say he’s grown old?
Is it because when he walks he needs someone to hold?
Or is it because he fumbles while wearing his shoes?
And messes his shirt having his stews?
He never misses a chance,
For a peek in the mirror to glance,
Is his hair in its place?
Is he a reflection of debonair and grace?
Then why do I say he’s grown old,
When in many ways he defies the aged mold?
He still loves to gallivant,
Roam around and be extravagant,
But most of all he loves to yap,
And he’s always looking for an audience to trap,
Trap is the key word here,
Because be ready for his stories to hear,
Perhaps for nth time this time around,
Because in repeat value he is bound,
This is why I say he’s grown old,
Because every time the same stories unfold,
Sure he still has the gift of the gab,
But every time the same old stories can be a bit drab