Classic Poem

Why all these questions that worry and weary us?
Let's drop the serious rôle for a while.
Youth, with smooth cheeks, will be laughing behind us;
Age will not mind us; the cynic—he'll smile.

Come, for the gray hairs already are fretting us;
Girls are forgetting us. Lord, how we've got!
Come, let's convince them our blood is—well, red yet.
We are not dead yet. Let's show them we're not!

Yes, we'll have cups till you can't keep a count of them;
Any amount of them—hundreds, at least.
I'll have the table all tempting and tidy—
And we'll get Lyde to come to the feast!