Yes, today I’m fifty-two.
Little doubt, much more than you.
Behold my fruitful time on Earth
Ignore my rather meatful girth.
I wake and contemplate the sun
That’s risen every day since One
And wonder if there’ll be one more
And if it be, just what’s in store.
With hurting heels I crawl from bed
Leave mindless epithets unsaid
And think of maybe making tea
But then I think “Why should this be?”
“I’m fifty-two years old,” I think.
”Fuck this tea. I need a drink.”
So many dawns; so many days
Ushered forth with bland Earl-Greys?
The frozen vodka mutely cries
The stalks of celery arise.
The Worcestershire, Tabasco, dill
(My recipe is in my will).
And so I now this nectar sip
My celery within it dip
Fuck, many more ‘fore setting sun!
And no more tea till I am done.
To you "Joyeux anniversaire"
ReplyDeleteMy newly minted Quebec frère
At 52 you are a tot
I'm 58. I kid you not.
Happy birthday!
Karen
My latest, freshest, crunchiest celery stalk thanks you, my dear! (Vitamin X, don't you know. Fiber, too!)
ReplyDeleteHappy belated bithday to you Nick. Hope you had a good day and that you remember what happened. If you don't then you're probably out of celery :-)
ReplyDeleteBest wishes from London. Simon
Most loveliest Christmas I've had in err, decadesh. All in all, the jolliesht folk about. And a WONDERFUL dinnersh. Toast after toast after many toasts, you should've been there, really, Simon, my cultured f-friend.
ReplyDeleteAnd I MEANT what I said about th' tea, really, l did.
No more tea for me, Simon, no more tea . . . uh . . . what? THAT corner? You must be daft.
Belated best wishes.
ReplyDeleteAiee! You don't know the 'arf of it.
ReplyDeleteWho said being 52 was less fun than being 2?
Not sure why my Happy Birthday comment didn't show up!
ReplyDelete