A poem written by, the late, Cardinal Richard Cushing

There’s nothing whatever the matter with me.
I’m just as healthy as I can be.
I have arthritis in both my knees,
And when I talk,
I talk with a wheeze.

My pulse is weak and my blood is thin,
But I’m awfully well
for the shape I’m in.
I think my liver is out of whack
And a terrible pain is in my back.

My hearing is poor,
my sight is dim,
Most everything seems to be out of trim,
But I’m awfully well
for the shape I’m in.

I have arch supports for both me feet,
Or I wouldn’t be able to go on the street.
Sleeplessness I have night after night,
And in the morning I’m just a sight.

My memory is failing,
my head’s in a spin,
I’m peacefully living on aspirin.
But I’m awfully well
for the shape I’m in.

The moral is,
as this tale we unfold,
That for you and me who are growing old,
It’s better to say,
“I’m fine” with a grin,
Than to let them know
the shape we’re in.