The Centenarian

Great Grandfather was ninety-nine And so it was our one dread, That though his health was superfine He'd fail to make the hundred. Though he was not a rolling stone No moss he seemed to gather: A patriarch of brawn and bone Was Great Grandfather. He should have been senile and frail Instead of hale and hearty; But no, he loved a mug of ale, A boisterous old party. 'As frisky as a cold,' said he, 'A man's allotted span I've lived but now I plan to be A Centenarian.' Then one night when I called on him Oh what a change I saw! His head was bowed, his eye was dim, Down-fallen was his jaw. Said he: 'Leave me to die, I pray; I'm no more bloody use . . . For in my mouth I found today-- A tooth that's loose.'