Too Late for Dying Young

It isn’t too late now for dying young,
Is it? You know, I’m only seventy.
I feel just like I did at twenty-three,
And not quite dead quite yet, although my tongue
Is turning blue, I’m coughing up a lung,
My elbows hurt, and I’ve been lost at sea.
I still remember drinking eau de vie,
Your hazel eyes, and every song we’ve sung.

Each time I come across a waiting puddle
I have to choose between feeling the rot
And leaping in. You’re in my every thought:
Each touch reminds me how you craved a cuddle,
And each caress puts my brain in a muddle.
Too late to die young? Maybe, maybe not.