Hang on, mate,
I’m old, not obsolete,
Still rather nifty,
Still on my feet.

I’m nearer fifty than seventy,
Yet you’re convinced
I’m running on empty.

Last year’s model,
That I may be,
Yet there is no shortage of
Ability.

Give me a chance,
Still, I can dance
And carry a tune,
Yet you want to banish me
From the workroom.

When all is told,
Do I make you feel old?
Remind you of mortality?
So why should I be the casualty?