A rabbit’s habits

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A rabbit's habits

A rabbit cohabits
From sociable habits,
Producing her young by the score.
And when she is old
Then her partner is told
Not tonight bunny, I'm sore.

Lost time

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Lost time

They say that
time's a healer;
well, I am
it might work
for the youngsters
but time is
killing me!


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As I transition
from mid-life crisis
to the gentle senility
of old age,
I find myself
profound questions;
what is
the real
meaning of life
and have 
I eaten
my lunch yet.
Sadly, both
are equally difficult
to answer.

Seasons of life

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Seasons of life

It’s fashion, it’s passion,
it’s sporting, it’s courting,
it’s all about falling in love.
It’s sowing, it’s growing
and yearning and learning
what it means to walk loved hand in glove.

It’s exploring, deploring,
it’s hoping and coping,
it’s having some muscles to flex.
It’s exciting, inviting,
it’s all new and all you,
the very invention of sex.

It’s working, some shirking,
ambition, fruition,
a bit, to be honest, yes guv.
It’s slippage, it’s marriage,
it’s squadrons of children,
it’s learning the meaning of love.

It’s romantic and frantic,
energetic and hectic,
the busiest time of our life.
It’s stations, vacations,
promotion, devotion
and knowing you’ve found the right wife.

It’s grown kids and grandkids,
retirements and virements,
a warm, fluffy socks kind of love.
It’s possessions, impressions,
it’s cynical, clinical,
the need for a bit of a shove.

It’s grilling, it’s chilling,
it’s box sets and twin sets,
a chance for the world to slow down.
It is cocoa and go-slow,
it’s white hair, -where? -right there,
a stroll down the quiet side of town.

It’s aching and shaking,
it’s fresh ills and more pills,
above all a chance for reflection.
It’s objective perspective,
it’s welcome and wisdom,
a counting of blessings collection.

It is Lord Above love,
it is last minute faith,
thanks given for each shallow breath.
It’s tearful and cheerful,
it’s goodbyes and don’t cries,
Then finally, my friend, it is death.


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I dreamed I was asleep
but clearly was mistaken,
as I showered in my undies,
I could smell the care home's bacon.

A woman with a badge on
was washing off my bottom,
I wish I was asleep,
my life right now is rotten.


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Whilst I'm usually okay
in the skin I am in,
I sometimes reflect
on the years I was thin.
When I had my own teeth
and I still had some hair,
my memory was good,
I could quote from Voltaire.

Many winters older
and folk look at me
like I'm stuck to their shoe
or I fell from a tree.
I am pleased that my missus
has aged a bit too,
I'm the house red
and she's the grand cru.

my generation

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my generation

I hope that I die 
before I get old, 
lyrics of a lie, my 
generation were sold. 

Who were so sure 
before they got there, 
they would not try that cure, 
they did not want that care. 

Now we are old 
and do not have our youth, 
if I may be so bold, 
that is not quite the truth.

Fast forward

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Fast forward

Pacemaker fitted,
poo tests for cancer,
whatever became
of that once great romancer.
Regular health checks,
heart rate is naughty
and as for my pulse,
it's two hundred and forty!

The sex life, once active
I thought was forever,
Is slowly declining
from rarely, to never.
Each new health crisis
brings on hypertension,
I should have skipped childhood,
moved straight to my pension!


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Audiology, said,
Cardiology, heard
Neurology, the ward she did venture.
Which is maybe as well,
because, deaf as a bell,
she also had early dementia.

Oh Well

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Oh well

Forty five years we've been wed
And it don't seem a day over forty,
We never had need of a bed,
You were sexy, and ever so naughty!

Now, it's all aids and false teeth,
Like a project that's got out of hand,
Never knowing quite what lies beneath,
As our hourglasses run out of sand.
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