When I'm Sessenta E Quatro

Hold the camera.

When I get older I'm losing my hair, many years from now.

Will you still be sending me a valentine, birthday greetings, bottle of wine?

If I've been out till a quarter to three, would you lock the door?

Will you still need me, will you still feed me, when I'm sixty-four?

You'll be older too

And if you say the word

I could stay with you

I could be handy, mending your fuse

When your lights have gone

You can knit a sweater by the fireside

Sunday morning, go for a ride

the garden, digging the weeds. Who could ask for more? Will you still need me? Will you

still feed me when I'm sixty-four? Every summer we can rent a cottage in the

hour wide if it's not too dear. We shall scream and say, "Grandchildren on your knee, Vera,

Chuck and Dave." Send me a postcard, drop me a line, stating point of view. Indicate

precisely what you mean to say. You're sincerely wasting away. Give me your answer, fill in a form,

mine forevermore. Will you still need me? Will you still feed me when I'm 64?