"when I grow old
A bag of pus, blood and bones
A skeleton of vastness, thoughts and molds
A loving heart that has grown so cold
That's my destination when I get old?

A home awaits my quiet days
The day that I will go my way
My quiet home will then be sold
That's my destination when I get old?

A pile of ashes that once had life
It is made by my wife a widow
This is the saddest story I've told
That's my destination when I am old? "