WORK TILL YOU'RE PUSHING UP DAISIES
Work till you're pushing up daisies,
Till the blood in your veins has run cold;
Till you've gone to - whatever the phrase is -
To the madhouse that takes in the old.
Work till your eyes fill with cataracts,
Till arthritis has eaten your knees,
Till you're ruled by your urinary tract and
You never know where you last left your keys.
Work on till you hear the Grim Reaper
Ring nervously on your doorbell;
Tread gently, don't welcome that creeper
For he's after your pension as well.
Take work from the young and the healthy,
Leave them lounging around on the dole;
Know that you can be smug and be wealthy
While they can only grow old.