At eighty I’ve become a foolish one
And I cannot deny my silly state.
Time’s winged chariot is about to run
Me down and drag me to my fate.
Yet I can choose what kind of fool to be:
An old curmudgeon in high dudgeon, I
Can rant at those who don’t agree with me.
As an old crank, I’ll rare back and deny
The facts, if they don’t fit the truth I see.
As an old coot, I’ll quibble and quack,
“We’re ruled by a kakistocracy!
We’ve got to set our country free!”
And when all is said and done,
My voice is not the only one.