You'd still say you loved it,

Even in the cold.

And isn't that the point;

Staying warm as we grow old?

Somewhere we forgot to mention—

When the cookies sprouted mold—

The morals that we kept before

Their stories had all been told.

So we'll be here 'til our time is up,

Start to miss our mother's scold.

How many years lacking worship for

The beautiful, the bold?

We may brush off the realization,

But what we left was gold.