A random poem from the quote collection

“You are old, father William,” the young man said,
“And your hair has become very white;
And yet you incessantly stand on your head –
Do you think, at your age, it is right?”

“In my youth,” father William replied to his son,
“I feared it might injure the brain;
But, now that I’m perfectly sure I have none,
Why, I do it again and again.”

“You are old,” said the youth, “as I mentioned before,
And have grown most uncommonly fat;
Yet you turned a back-somersault in at the door –
Pray what is the reason of that?”

“In my youth,” said the sage, as he shook his grey locks,
“I kept all my limbs very supple
By the use of this ointment — one shilling the box –
Allow me to sell you a couple?”

“You are old,” said the youth, “and I’m told by my peers
That your lectures bore people to death.
Yet you talk at one hundred conventions per year –
Don’t you think that you should save your breath?”

“I have answered three questions and that is enough,”
Said his father, “Don’t give yourself airs!
Do you think I can listen all day to such stuff?
Be off, or I’ll kick you downstairs!”

“You are old,” said the youth, “and your jaws are too weak
For anything tougher than suet;
Yet you finished the goose, with the bones and the beak –
Pray, how did you manage to do it?”

“In my youth,” said his father, “I took to the law,
And argued each case with my wife;
And the muscular strength which it gave to my jaw,
Has lasted the rest of my life.”

“You are old,” said the youth, “one would hardly suppose
That your eye was as steady as ever;
Yet you balanced an eel on the end of your nose –
What made you so awfully clever?”

“I have answered three questions, and that is enough,”
Said his father. “Don’t give yourself airs!
Do you think I can listen all day to such stuff?
Be off, or I’ll kick you down stairs!”

“You are old,” said the youth, “and your programs don’t run,
And there isn’t one language you like;
Yet of useful suggestions for help you have none –
Have you thought about taking a hike?”

“Since I never write programs,” his father replied,
“Every language looks equally bad;
Yet the people keep paying to read all my books
And don’t realize that they’ve been had.”

“You are old,” said the youth, “as I mentioned before,
And make errors few people could bear;
You complain about everyone’s English but yours –
Do you really think this is quite fair?”

“I make lots of mistakes,” Father William declared,
“But my stature these days is so great
That no critic can hurt me — I’ve got them all scared,
And to stop me it’s now far too late.”