You say it’s your birthday
It’s my birthday too–yeah
They say it’s your birthday
We’re gonna have a good time
I’m glad it’s your birthday
Happy birthday to you.

Wow, 64 years old, that doesn’t seem as ancient, now that I’m crowding fifty, as it did when the White Album was released.

Know which song Paul probably hates more than any other he’s written?

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 been out ’till quarter to three, would you lock the door?
Will you still need me, will you still feed me,
When I’m sixty-four?

Hmm——mmm—mmmh.
You’ll be older, too. Aaah, 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?

When Paul penned that tune, the Beatles were “bigger than God” and every girl dreamed of being the one for whom Paul would mend a fuse in their sunset years.

Forty some-odd years later, with the separation and impending divorce from Heather Mills, his second wife of four years, Paul might well add this coda to When I’m Sixty-Four:

I thought it was time, that true love was here, when I tied the knot
Many times they said “Paul get a pre-nup signed,” but I didn’t do it, I was out of my mind.
Now we’re apart except for when we’re in court, working out the score
I’ll either remarry or find a new honey, ‘cause I’m alone at sixty-four!

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