Poem #13

I am going to live to 150;

No one believes me, but I will.

I’ll see my great-great-grandkids born

And squeeze the sprites into my will.

I’ll fill with letters an escritoire,

Each signed by the hand that scratches the toosh

That sags upon the royal throne,

Like parents into Mulberry Bush.

I’ll visit the deathbeds of all my chums,

And bid them fair adieu!

‘See you in 70 years my friend,

And sorry about the feeding tube.’

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