The white winds will howl, and mountains will crumble
The sky will fall down in a blue pile of rubble
The moon will explode and blow up the Hubble
But you’re so old it won’t even matter
Your fingers will wither and turn into prunes
Your nose will swell up like the now-deceased moon
Your skin will grow scales that rival sand dunes
But, my dear, you’re so old, it won’t matter.
Lost kingdoms will rise from the deep ocean floor
Leviathans lost from millenia before
And gold will regain all its value, and more
But, my girl, you’ll be too old to use it
The angels will blow on their proud silver horns
And all earth will bow before their heavenly Lord
Cacophonies blasted by thundering hordes
But you’re so old you won’t even hear it.
When folks go to visit the nice nursing home
And feed the old-timers and wax off their domes
And ask them their names through large megaphones
You’re so old they think you’re a couch
All the numbers we have couldn’t count up your years
You’ve seen galaxies die before light appeared
And your clothes are outdated, and tawdry, and drear
But my dear, you’re much older than fashion.
Your face bears the canvas of terrible wars
Your eyes speak of times past, of centuries and scores
And your teeth rotted out of your mouth long ago
But my lady, your oldness is older
The pharaohs are ancient and covered in mold
Cretaceous is marked when the dinosaurs roamed
Time travelers who visit the world’s start are bold
But they only see you, dear, still old.
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