Breathe in please as you squeeze

Through the envelope and escape

The pigeon hole of high numbers

That lumbers and encumbers you

 

And threatens the glue that holds

The letters together to make sense

And condense the myth

Of 3 score and 10

 

Then think again, hang in there

Give the young guns a stare

And tell them you're here

Still here, no fear

 

Brains picked from old frames

Spilt beans, we're all the same

Mistakes galore

In life's pressure cooker open door

 

The hair maybe silver

But experience is gold