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The whiteness of hair
That which still lingers there
The chin with its folds
Often seen on the olds
Dry wrinkled skin
That belies what’s within
The ‘ooh’ and the ‘aah’
Caused by sciatica
And ruddy complexion
That spoils my reflection
But the worst thing I see
As I look back at me
Are the brows on my eyes
Once so smooth, once so nice
Now a wiry confusion
Without chance of illusion
I trim and I pluck
Them, without any luck
They’ve a mind of their own
Now that they’re fully grown.

(But in truth... I’m still a youth!)

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