Life starts at forty

All our days they string themselves together
To form an endless and unbroken chain
Distinguishable only by the weather:
Just intermittent or unbroken rain.

The air's unhealthy and your back feels cold,
Your feet are sore, your knees have all gone wrong;
You're only forty? Hah, that's much too old,
You're far too tired and the road's so long

And it's a weary way from now to then -
Each day you're up before the cock has crowed
With no incentive to go on again
As 'when' turned 'if' somewhere along the road

And on your mind's the memories of joys
And silent happiness and summer sun
And all the ragged remnants of a boy's
High hopes that have been utterly undone.