“You are old, Father Brad,” the young man did state,
“And your hair has become rather thin;
And yet you incessantly pontificate –
Do you care, at your age, if you win?”
“In my youth,” Father Brad replied to the mite,
“I feared it might injure the brain;
But, now that I’m perfectly sure I am right,
Why, I do it again and again.”
“You are old,” said the youth, “have I mentioned that yet?
And have grown most uncommonly fat;
Yet you twist legal nothings to fashion a "threat" –
Pray, what is the reason of that?”
“In my youth,” said the sage, as he polished his brow,
“I kept all my posturing mild,
Yet I find it is harder to stick to that now –
And I yearn for the faith of a child”
“You are old,” said the youth, “and your logic grows less
And people begin to see through it;
Why it doesn't abate, I can't see, I confess -
Pray how do you manage to do it?”
“In my youth,” said his father, “I took to the law,
And argued each case with my wife;
And the muscular strength, which it gave to my jaw,
Has lasted the rest of my life.”
Brad.
Meant in good humour.