Hilarious

Middle Age (funny poem)

Middle age is a perplexity.
Only God knows the number.
It might be 40, maybe 65
til I’m half way to six feet under

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Evil brewing, stewing

There’s a chance I may be evil
(I’m testing the theory.)
The laugh in my head is now deep dark and baritone
instead of light and cheery.

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To do

Hold your head up high
(your neck will do the work)
Deep breath in,
flash a smile.
Now get to work!

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Said the night bird

The early bird may get the worm

but the late bird gets them thrice.

(Worms wearing pajamas

taste very, very nice).

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A list of complaints

My enemies are gloating.
My expression reads revolting.

My cerebellum’s overdosing
on synapses guilty yet consoling.

My concentration is chaperoning
a tendency for disrobing.

My intuition is foreboding
of an expletive offloading.

My brain is emphatically bemoaning
the state of affairs under my clothing.

My conversation is engrossing
to the dead and always moaning.

 

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The origin of my mood grim

Lindy Loo? Oh how she’s dim!

Just yesterday said she on a whim:

“goodness gracious me you’re slim!

My oh my, how you look trim!

Have you frequented the gym?”

Aghast was I at this creature prim

with skin of marble porcelain.

Has Lindy Loo been on the Gin?

Before my mood (now grave and grim)

was shattered by a further synonym,

with face chagrin to Lindy dim:

“Ms. Loo…. I’ve lost a limb!!”

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Lover of her bodily functions

When you sneeze, oh the rapture!

To be showered post ah-choo.

A night heeding your nasal snores?

Spilleth over my love stew.

With each of your lurching hiccups

Oh how I do love you more.

To count your moles till the end of time?

Bliss, mon amour.

Your backsplash post garggle.

Your molars mid yawn.

With every scratch you satisfy

My world turns right from wrong.

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