Is it because I'm bent and grey, <br /> Though wearing rather well, <br />That I can slickly get away <br /> With all the yarns I tell? <br />Is it because my bleary eye <br /> No longer beams with youth <br />That I can plant a whopping lie, <br /> And flout the truth? <br /> <br />I wonder why folks hark to me <br /> Where once they would have laughed? <br />They treat my yarns respectfully, <br /> No matter how they're daft. <br />They count the notches on my gun <br /> And stroke its polished butt, <br />Wanting to know why every one <br /> Of them was cut. <br /> <br />Indeed were I to stick to fact <br /> Their interest would flag; <br />Dramatically I must act <br /> The rôle of scalliwag; <br />A battle veteran to be, <br /> A frozen argonaut, <br />A castaway in coral sea,-- <br /> Such a tommyrot! <br /> <br />And so with unction I conceive <br /> Invention wild and new, <br />Until I'm coming to believe <br /> My taradiddles true . . . <br />Is it because I'm old and sage, <br /> I draw a bow that's risky? <br />Or can it be--that lies with age <br /> Improve like whisky?<br /><br />Robert William Service<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/old-scout/
