Come Grow Old With Me

One time I chanced to see, on a bench beneath a tree
Some words carved with a knife about the course of life.

Though tender was the verse, the truth it did reverse.
It said, "Grow old with me.  The best is yet to be."

The best is yet to be?  This I'd like to see.

I stared at it bemused, my senses all abused.
To say the end is best just does not pass the test.

Our best I fear my dear, lies in the rearview mirror.
The future holds no bliss.  Reality is this.

Eyes grow dim and hair gets slim.
Knees creak and bowels leak.
Necks get crepy and triceps drapey.
Jowls sag and back is bent, the skin resembles old parch-ment.
As memory fades and wit expires, we find we're running on old tires.
With withered grip and pruney lip, I fret about a rigid hip.

The future I must tell, just doesn't seem that swell. 
But come grow old with me.
When I meet eternity
It's with you I want to be.