From 30 to 40, if he still live right, he misses a morning and sometimes at night.
From 40 to 50, it’s just now and then.
From 50 to 60, it’s God knows when.
From 69 to 70, if he’s still inclined.
But don’t let him kid you. It’s still in his mind.
His sporting days are over, His little light is out.
What used to be his sex appeal, Is now his water spout,
It used to be embarrassing, To make the Thing behave.
For nearly every morning, It stood and watched him shave.
But now its getting older, It sure gives him the blues,
To have it dangling down his legs, and watch him clean his shoes.