Being Ninety
At the end of my last year’s poem on being 89 are these two lines:
For Ninety I can find no rhyme
Expect no poem in one year’s time.
Well. I’ve done it. But only by cheating!
Being Ninety
I’m verging on the High and Minety,
But I’m allowed because I’m ninety.
Some might say I’m rash and Flynty
Don’t care. My lamp is burning brighntly.
Still tie my bowline on a bighnty,
Seize a whipping nice and tighntly.
Varnish the kitchen in my nighnty
You can do it when you’re ninety.
Nothing to bug me, even slightnly
The moving finger having writ
I do not wish my piety or wit
To lure it back to cancel half a linety
I am content that I have got to ninety.
Now that 90 has been done
What shall I do for ninety one?
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