When Katy turns eighty and I ninety-five
Will she still read my verses and laugh at my jive.
Will she still read my limerick and suffer my wit
Its her laughter I’m after in songs I have writ’.
Now Katy’s a lady by any mans measure.
A smile on her face is more precious than treasure.
I sometimes have used her to measure my verse:
Am I writin’ more better? Or have I gotten worse?
And when Katy turns eighty and I ninety-five
The chances are great I might not be alive.
So if she is still reading the scribbles I’ve left,
My poems perhaps will yet survive my death.