Now you're one year closer to the gloomy grave,
Count your blessings and clutch on to your Zimmer;
Keep smiling toothlessly, and be oh so brave,
Dressed up like an overweight dog's dinner.
How long before that dread day dawn bright
And you get your well-earned old-age pension?
But what joy: the loot will put a facelift within sight
And finance serious repairs to your suspension.
Just think what the years have brought to pass
Oh, what a hard toll has been taken of you;
You have now no chance of butch male ass
(unless the owners are blind and fucking senile too).
Looking further into the future, drear and glum:
Is there any-fucking-thing worth waiting for?
Apart from the ever-deeper wrinkles on your bum
As it droops closer, closer, closer to the floor.
It's straight downhill from here, just horrid grief
And straggly white hairs both top and bottom;
Is there still good news about your teeth:
(Assuming that you've still fucking got 'em)?
Look forward to twelve hard months of sixty-nine
Before you will logically become seventy;
Let's hope everything will be still just fine
(apart from the premature senile dementia).
So thus, dear one, I've done my loving duty,
And my sweet birthday poem is herewith ending;
Even though you're no more a teenage beauty,
Just don't let me catch you unawares and bending.
Does your mouth water?
Comments
1 - 8 of 8
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Happy Birthday!
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HI-larious
Oh, Edna, Edna, Edna...What would my world have been if you were not that star I spied with my peeping tube in my youth, and who peeped back at me?
It stands to reason that you are far more impressionable to me than the Queen, or anything else out of your country that has made a mark on my life, and thus are a terribly, terribly, crazy-naughty-SWEET person who deserves to live a long life with a droopy bum. (Seriously though, to this date, I have to watch my mouth when talking about people I know from the UK, since your pseudonym would love nothing more than to break free of it, followed by a whole host of words that are fond, kinky, and disturbing.)
And, oh, I'm living The Year of the Lurky Loner....which I think, I hope, is a phase that will go away when I turn 24 at the start of next year. So, well, until then, I hope you'll excuse my being barely there to say the occasional hi (and pet your sagging bum fondly).
-a -
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How lovely to hear from you again! My bum is NOT droopy. Merely careworn.
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sighing and swooning to this heartfelt mass of butch male ass.
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This is hilarious ...
first time I'm felt like laughing at anything in God knows when. Indubitably, you've got style.
Take care and get the best you can out of every single second.
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It's not all gloom and doom, remember the free bus pass, free prescriptions (by then, you'll need em, mind you) and don't forget those wonderful pensioner days out swapping ailment horrors, eg digestive and urinary track probs. Love the humour in your poem though.
Ann
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yup
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Excellent bit of humor.
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