There is nothing the matter with me,
I am healthy, as healthy as can be.
I have feebleness in my knees
And when I talk, I talk with a wheeze.
I am using a wheelchair instead of my feet
Or I would not be able to be on the street
My memory is failing, my head's in a spin
But I'm awfully well for the shape that I'm in.
I get up each morning and dust of my wits,
And pick up the paper and read the 'Obits',
If my name is still missing I know I am not dead;
I still intend to beat the monster in my head.
The Moral is this, as this tale is unfold
That for you and for me, who are getting old
It's better to say, "I'm fine" with a grin
Than to let folks know the shape that I'm in


(A poem claimed by different authors, such as Art Davies and Mrs Kathleen Fisher, here adapted to personal circumstances)