I’m growing old
My hair grows thin
And the spots on my skin
Reveal me the truth
I’m losing hold
Of my joyless spring
And I reach out
For any kind of proof
Of still being young
As I gather my last
Breath to sing
So when I ask you
Do I look good?
Please, do but reply
You sure look great
For such a small mistake
Will not demean your stand
And so I beg you, please
Please comprehend
That I am that I should be
And – if you’d be my friend –
I beg you, please,
Please, lie to me
