If you’re of the male persuasion
and you’re ‘getting on’ (that’s agein’)
then nocturnal urination
is a foul abomination.

You stumble from your cosy cot,
shamble to the accustomed spot
and there you stand in numb despair,
musing glumly, ‘Where, oh where,

Where the raptures of my youth?
Where the joys of yesteryear?’
[Pause to wipe away a tear.]

When that you were young and sprightly
and ready to be up thrice nightly,
truth to tell, eschewing quibble …
it was not to stand and dribble.

Time’s a-flying, so they say;
life’s for living, day by day.
The moral of my little lay:
Gather rosebuds while ye may!