My sprightly wee Auntie says, “Seventy’s not old,
if you’re happy and snugly closed off from the cold,
with a cuppa in hand, where others have none,
and the quest of your life is just having fun.”

The ladies next door (there is one either side)
still have their push-bikes and both like to ride
twice round the village, through the gate, down the road,
splitting their sides when they bump off a toad.

Then there’s Harry and Teddy, who are two of a kind,
up to all mischief, still young in mind
when it comes to flirtation, or dancing a jig
with the “Belles” of the village, who don’t give a fig
about age or depression, worries or care,
but show they’re still kicking whatever’s laid bare.

Auntie’s best friend is wee Susie McNeive
who sought for a boy friend, her heart on her sleeve,
but she fell for a “Toy-Boy”, at least half her age,
who took all she had, then stoked up her rage
by leaving a note saying, “‘Twas only in fun,
you still have your health, and when all’s said and done
you are as just as well off, as you were before,
with these kindly neighbours, plus Auntie next door.”

He meant my dear wee Auntie, or so I am told,
who reckons that seventy is never too old,
with a bite on the table, plus a little to spare,
if a neighbour comes calling to ask if you’ll share
in a cup that’s half empty, a wee bit of bun,
and a wink that suggests that she too seeks some fun.

The moral is plain as the nose on your face.
There is plenty of spirit in this human race
where age is a number of years passing by,
stacks of good memories, a wink of an eye,
and a savoury substance to chew o’er with friends,
who share in retirement as this story ends.

– Dave Rowan

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