I'm not fond of 88
For reasons you'll appreciate.
Unsteady best describes my gait.
A stick's required to keep me straight.
Muscles once so strong and nifty
Feel the strain at metres fifty.
Breath is short, the breathing deep
The heart quails if the incline's steep.
Sight is cloudy, vision weak.
I fail to hear when others speak.
No more five dishes served at table
Two slender courses are all I'm able.
And as for coffee, wine or spirit
A cup, small glass, is now my limit.
Sad the thought as I sip my wine
Is there worse to come at 89?