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.