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                          ON becoming 67

Sixty-seven - well, it's better than being dead -

But there are times, when everything is aching

And I'd like that extra glass, but dread

The thought of lonely hours when I lie waking

Torn between the gentle warmth of bed

And the Gaviscon which I have left downstairs.

If only I could eat like I once did

And drink into the night without a care,

Watch the late-night film knowing for sure

I'd stay awake until it reached its peak,

Instead of drifting off in this old chair

To back to back repeats of Mock the Week.

Thank goodness, I have friends who all ignore

My grumpy side, which can be such a bore!

Brian Hick April 2012

©copyright Sally Hick 19.4.24