A Poem For My 26th Birthday.

I can’t see,
I can’t pee.
I can’t chew,
I can’t screw.
My memory shrinks,
My hearing stinks.
No sense of smell,
I look like hell.
My body is drooping,
I have trouble pooping.
The golden years have come at last,
The golden years can kiss my @r$e

Author: Christopher-Dorset

A Bloody Kangaroo

11 thoughts on “A Poem For My 26th Birthday.”

  1. Happy Birthday indeed Christopher.

    Three and a half things.

    1 Inappropriate use, poesy-wise, of the eliding apostrophe, in my opinion. ‘Cannot’ is surely preferable?

    1.5 ‘I’ve’ works better when it comes to your alleged pooping difficulty, again in my opinion.

    2. Been googling for the source and can’t believe Wiki, particularly the Dr Seuss attribution. I feel that it has to be one of Anon’s better efforts.

    3. Intrigued by the fact that you are 26 when I am, conversely, 62, my OCD kicked in to see if our ships would ever pass in similar fashion again. Just the once if my math(s) is/are right, I think that if I make it to 73, you will be 37.

    4. This is all displacement activity, by the way, I’m trying to judge a photography competition and am putting off the evil hour of decision.

    Happy birthday again. I hope the day goes well.

  2. Happy birthday. If you feel that bad at 26, wait until you get to 56, which is my next milestone.


  3. Happy Birthday. I remember feeling much the same just before my 26th birthday.

    Don’t take any notice of Soutie – 27 is a wonderful age. I should know I celebrated being 27 for thirteen years!

  4. JM, I discovered that last year my eldest daughter, born in ’67, was 43; while I, born in ’43, was 67.

    Is that symmetry or wha’?

  5. Happy Birthday, Christopher.
    With your talent for tact and diplomacy, and your deep empathy for the trials and tribulations of being a senior, I strongly doubt that you will make it to 27. 👿

  6. Thank you all for your birthday wishes! I’m actually in perfect health and not that bad off, though I do have prematurely aged skin as a result of the hot, dry climate in California. It’s not good for pale Germanic skin.
    It’s my tradition to break out in hysterics on my birthday. I figure this way, by the time I actually do get old — over 80 — I will have long since exhausted myself of fretting over the inevitable facts of ageing.

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