First off let me say
I've reached that ripe old age
Can I get a show of hands
Of those who have lost a friend

They are dying right and left
Losing out on their life's bet
No ones more surprised at the fact
That I haven't joined them yet

They're all whistling out a dirge
Flying off like Northern birds
Before the first snow fall
And Winter chills us all

Just keep an eye on Deaths arthritic hand
And watch for who he grabs hold next
Most likely it's someone I know
Pack them up and lay them low

Do I really need to say
I've reached the ripe old age
That all the people close to me
Have either left or are soon to leave