Well, the tree it does whither 
You're hands like peaches grow old 
Your back bends like a willow 
With nobody left now to hold 

Your dreams, hopes, aspirations 
Have all turned to dust 
You've nobody left now to talk to 
And you've no-one left now to [bad word] 

Should I mourn your decline 

Should I be nice to you 
Where do I draw the line 
It is in to a home that awaits you 
Should I mourn your final decline 

No, I will drink to your decline 
I will drink to your decline