Old Age is Wasted on the Old

I can't wait until my hair is gray, I'd like that on the sides.
I'd like to lose the stuff on top, it's rather dignified.
Perhaps when I am middle-aged, I'd want a graying beard.
I'd want to see two sunken eyes, when I look in a mirror.
I'd need accompanying laugh lines, so everyone will know,
That I've enjoyed my big, long life, and I'm a jolly fellow.
- - -
Of course, my wife, would be old too, complete with turkey neck.
She'd need coarse and silvery hair to match my silver flecks.
I'd eat a manly pile of chocolate, eggs, steak and Wheaties,
And let my doctor scold me so I'd mind my diabetes.
I'll dance, (so much as my hips allow) with my aging bride,
I'll proudly take my pills, drive slow, and smell of formaldehyde.
- - -
And when I'm on my deathbed, having lost my loving bride,
Maybe then my children will all gather by my side.
And tubes protrude from in and out of wrinkled, spotted skin.
I'll breathe quite deep, perhaps my last, and gaze at all my children.
I'll look at my oldest, my strongest son, and speak with drying tongue,
"Son," I'll say my dying words, "youth is wasted on the young."