She's a little over eighty,
Wears heels high and pointy,
and stands tall, joyful and strong,
even when they say she's wrong.
She's beautiful by the way.
She's more so with hair grey.
Her ageless steel toughness,
Keeps in tune with gingerliness.
They wince while she prances,
And run when she dances.
They've the right to be scared,
But none to say she has erred.
When her Maker keeps her fit,
The last thing she'll do is quit.
There's no better way to live,
than to take the good life gives.
She turns a hundred and weak.
Now sits in her chair and peeks
At her grandchildren find their fit
And smiles as recollection permits