Dear Paul,
I appreciate you were nowhere near the age of 64 when you wrote it, but trust that you now see the errors of your ways.
64 is totally insignificant.
I know this as I am now 65.
That is not insignificant as I have been told by various government departments that I am now officially “old”.
And I don’t like it.
I am now officially a pensioner.
I have been sent letters from various sources and institutions, mainly governmental, telling me to expect the following to start failing in one way or another over the coming months.
My bowels. My heart. My bones. My kidneys. My muscles. My brain. My memory. My blood. And, most worryingly… My penis.
Therefore, I have taken this opportunity to re-write the lyrics to your famous song and also change the title by a year.
I hope you approve.
Please sing it to the classic tune that
you wrote as that certainly cannot be
improved upon.
Yours sincerely,
Rick Wakeman (aged 65 and a pensioner).
As I get older, losing my hair,
Happening right now,
Will you after a bottle of wine,
Take your teeth out to do 69.
If I stay out ’til quarter to three
Would you lock the door,
Now I’ve no money, you don’t find it funny,
No sex now I’m poor.
oo oo oo oo oo oo oo oooo
You’ll get old you cow, (ah ah ah ah ah)
And if you say the word,
I could f*** off now.
I could be handy searching
your bras,
When your tits have gone,
You can have a fiddle in my underpants,
But you’re likely just to
find ants.
Out in the garden, digging
my grave,
How will I survive?
I could try Amanda, she’s a penis expander,
Now I’m sixty-five.
Every summer we can rent a hooker,
on the Isle of Wight, if she’s not too dear,
Let her go to town,
Then you watch with her on my lap,
Bouncing up and down.
Send me a condom, Viagra pill,
Anything to help,
Indicate position and your favourite way,
Hope my stiffy’s able to stay.
Dip in cement or bend it in half,
Yours to make it thrive,
I once called it “Winkle”, You now call it
“Wrinkle”,
Now I’m 65.
