Wednesday, September 2, 2009

Tell me, sweet---

Tell me, sweet--
What will you eat
When I am old and dry?

Won't cook, or bake
Your carrot cake
When I'm no longer spry.

Tell me, honey--
How will money
The march of time deny?

I'll hack and wheeze,
And wobble my knees,
Knit sweaters on my thigh.

Tell me, dear--
Why do you fear
The fact we all will die?

My bones will crack,
I'll break my back,
And beside you I will lie.

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