Decline

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 trust

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