When you’re young with black hair,
Every window’s a mirror,
Where you stand proud and stare,
At your glory projected.
When you’re old with grey hair,
Any glass sends a shiver,
As you sigh in despair,
At your bald patch reflected.
When you’re young with smooth skin,
And peer into a pool,
You look back with a grin,
As if nothing else mattered.
When your skin’s become lined,
And the years have been cruel,
It’s a shock when you find,
That the mirror has shattered.