A Fair Offer

Yes, darling, we are growing old,

      No more we feel the youthful fire;

My love howe’er shall ne’er grow cold,

      Of you my love I ne’er shall tire.

Although each morn is bleak and cold,

      Of you sweetheat I’ll never tire;

I’ll love you till you’re bent and old,

      If you’ll get up and build the fire.

Jan. 14, ‘07