When I get older, losing my hair, many years from now, will you still be sending me a valentine, birthday greetings, bottle of wine? If I'd be around till quarter to three, would you lock the door? Will you still need me, will you still feed me, when I'm sixty-four? Ooh, you'll be all the time, and if you say the word, I could stay with you. I could be handy, mending a fuse, when your lights have gone. You can knit a sweater by the fireside, Sunday mornings go for a ride. Doing the garden, digging the weeds, who could ask for more? Will you still need me, will you still feed me, when I'm sixty-four? Every summer we can rent a cottage in the Isle of Wight, if it's not too dear. We shall scrimp and save, grandchildren on your knee, Vera, Chuck and Dave. Send me a postcard, drop me a line, stating point of view, indicate precisely what you mean to say, you're sincerely wasting away. Give me your answer, fill in a form, mine forevermore. Will you still need me, will you still feed me, when I'm sixty-four?