At ninety-nine, old Albert Brown
Was quite the local catch,
He had his teeth, his own two hips,
And trousers that still matched.
He took his pills, could climb the stairs,
And rarely wet the bed.
He knew the names of all the girls,
And most of them weren’t dead.
The ladies at the nursing home
Would swoon when he walked past,
For Albert had a working heart,
And one that beat quite fast.
He’d dance with Doris after tea,
Play bingo next to Jean,
And Mavis swore she’d never met
A man so full of beans.
Then in walked lovely Margaret,
A sprightly ninety-three.
She had her teeth, her hips, her hair,
And made a decent tea.
He took her hand and whispered low,
‘My darling, you’re divine.
Shall we spend our golden years
In your room, love, or mine?’
And now they share a double room,
Their love still feels brand-new.
But every morning Albert asks,
‘Excuse me, who are you?’
