  When we reach the Land of Forty, And the hot blood cools a jot, There's a mighty sight of changes In our vision, like as not; And we sober down a little As we figure up life's sum When we waken in the morning And the crow's feet come. When they scratch their little wrinkles Round the corner of the eyes We begin to chase the creatures In a horrified surprise; But they cling with cool persistence And our hearts are stricken dumb For we know they'll never leave us When the crow's feet come. We may tonic and cosmetic, We may take our beauty sleep; We may rub and punch and powder But the claws go deep and deep; And before we understand it All our beauty's on the bum For the years are turning yellow When the crow's feet come! But it's all the way of Nature! There's no use to sob or sigh, 'Cause the chin takes on a wobble And the wrinkles wrap the eye; If we heap our hearts with gladness Life with music still shall hum, Though we reach the Land of Forty And the crow's feet come! |
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