I know I’m rough around the edges, what with age and wear and rust,
But I like the character antiquity imparts; it must
Seem strange to you who have such beauty, youth and grace, you smooth of skin,
Bright of eyes and freshly laundered whippersnappers–my sole sin,
If sin I have, is being ancient and well-lived and storied; still,
I think your sympathies will shift as you get older. And you will.
If you don’t, rough luck, poor suckers, and I pity you the trust
You had in your youth and beauty, come the day you too will rust.
Better to have aged and crumbled, to have faltered, dim and grey,