Carols of an Old CodgerIs it because I'm bent and grey,Though wearing rather well,
That I can slickly get awayWith all the yarns I tell?
Is it because my bleary eyeNo longer beams with youth
That I can plant a whopping lie,And flout the truth?I wonder why folks hark to meWhere once they would have laughed?
They treat my yarns respectfully,No matter how they're daft.
They count the notches on my gunAnd stroke its polished butt,
Wanting to know why every oneOf them was cut.Indeed were I to stick to factTheir interest would flag;
Dramatically I must actThe rôle of scalliwag;
A battle veteran to be,A frozen argonaut,
A castaway in coral sea,--Such a tommyrot!And so with unction I conceiveInvention wild and new,
Until I'm coming to believeMy taradiddles true . . .
Is it because I'm old and sage,I draw a bow that's risky?
Or can it be--that lies with ageImprove like whisky?
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