Old like an oyster

As I get older, I lose my hair,
And the hair I retain
Is grey like an oyster,
Or white like the mother of pearl,
And my stomach is flabby
Like the flesh of the oyster
And my emotions are crusty
And pay lip service to character,
However permanent,
Like the hard-scrabble shell,
But even in the midst
Of the stony shell
And the viscuous, grey flesh
Might lie the pearl of great price.

It might be so.