52

It’s my birthday. So this poem reflects on being 52.

It’s the little creases that have appeared
In my skin, the sag around my middle.
It’s all the grey hairs springing from my beard,
And the urgent need to go and piddle.
Then there’s the morning creak from aching bones,
And darkened sacs resting under my eyes.
Care is needed to hide the moans and groans,
That suggest I’m for an early demise.
So, while getting old is not that much fun,
There are some pleasant life events and perks,
You’ll likely have a daughter or a son,
And maybe a grandchild is in the works.
So I won’t fear the passing of the years,
I’ll just eat my birthday cake and say cheers!

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