My mind writes checks, my body can't cash.
But I am still alive and living my dash.

Tarnished, a bit twisted, kinked and dented.
Living a life, some say is a bit demented.

Some only see a wrinkled old man.
Some see who and what I really am.

Yes I am wizened with lines of age.
From battles fought inside my own cage.

But through it all I've become a wiser man.
Still knowing, pay my own way, yes I can.

I never look for, or want anyone's sympathy.
Hell no that is not this old man, the real me.

Many fantasies I've had since just a kid.
Some lived, some I have kept well hid.

My mind is still filled with sullied thought.
Though my body tells me, young I is not.

Snow packed high atop my locks.
Fire still burns inside this silver fox.

Like shrivelled up apples beneath a tree.
Inside are a few seeds yet to sow maybe.