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 arse

That sags upon the royal throne

Like a funeral falling into farce.

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.”