The Successor After The Professor

Hundred and fifty years old
A mind colored in gold
He barely believes he's alive
Knuckles and blod's getting dry

Can't go to sleep at night
He has to complete his fight
But everything draws towards an\ the end
He cannot anylonger pretend

But his work and ideas still live
There's so much more to give
There must be a way this can be solved
A sollution both simple and bold

As clear as lightning from the sky
As obvious as day and night
The idea was that teh professor, of course
Needed a successor