My family threw me a surprise birthday party on my birthday, Oct. 4th. Can you guess how old I was?
hIp joint pain complaining
seXually frustrated
butTox sagging
PartY pooper
I want to dance, cut loose and prance
but when I do, my feet turn blue
no circulation there, no blood to spare
it takes all I've got, to keep my face hot
It stays red, and when I go to bed
I sweat like a hog, lying in a bog
And I cannot sleep, though I count my sheep
I twist and turn, and recite Ode to an Urn
But that doesn't work, so I finally jerk
the covers off the bed, and disturb the one I wed
then I get elbowed, and soon I'm cold
I look for the sheet, for my poor blue feet
Its all on him, so on a whim
I give a great tug, and he rolls off on the rug
and from the floor, I hear him snore
He slept through that, but not the cat
The cat was asleep, on the edge of the sheet
and when I pulled it, he became a bullet
up in the air he flew, like volcanic spew
fur, claws and eyes, expressed his surprise
Husband then awoke, with the sound of a choke
that flying cat, landed kind of flat
and scratched to race, from his landing place
with fur and claws, and tail and paws
in his mouth and eyes, and nose like flies
hubby fought the cat in the dark, and found his mark
he tossed that cat, and heard it splat
on the wall by the door, then hit the floor
with a quivering mew, I certainly knew
the cat would look, for a quiet nook
and there would stay, until a better day
but my husband looked, like his brain had been cooked
in the dim light of the clock, he seemed quite shocked
sitting there on the floor, feeling his face that was sore
"what the hell?" he mumbled, as he fought the sheet jumbled
I said go back to sleep and give me that sheet
because my feet are cold and I'm getting old
my hip is aching and you've been making
all kinds of noise, like little boys with their toys
he scratched his head, and got back into bed
I straightened the sheet, and said "go back to sleep"
so in he wiggled, and quietly I giggled
and thought, there are still tales to be told
even at sixty years old
Poetry by Phyllis J. Rhodes
Read 603 times
Written on 2008-10-15 at 05:27
Save as a bookmark (requires login)
Write a comment (requires login)
Send as email (requires login)
Print text
Happy Birthday To Me
SnoringhIp joint pain complaining
seXually frustrated
butTox sagging
PartY pooper
I want to dance, cut loose and prance
but when I do, my feet turn blue
no circulation there, no blood to spare
it takes all I've got, to keep my face hot
It stays red, and when I go to bed
I sweat like a hog, lying in a bog
And I cannot sleep, though I count my sheep
I twist and turn, and recite Ode to an Urn
But that doesn't work, so I finally jerk
the covers off the bed, and disturb the one I wed
then I get elbowed, and soon I'm cold
I look for the sheet, for my poor blue feet
Its all on him, so on a whim
I give a great tug, and he rolls off on the rug
and from the floor, I hear him snore
He slept through that, but not the cat
The cat was asleep, on the edge of the sheet
and when I pulled it, he became a bullet
up in the air he flew, like volcanic spew
fur, claws and eyes, expressed his surprise
Husband then awoke, with the sound of a choke
that flying cat, landed kind of flat
and scratched to race, from his landing place
with fur and claws, and tail and paws
in his mouth and eyes, and nose like flies
hubby fought the cat in the dark, and found his mark
he tossed that cat, and heard it splat
on the wall by the door, then hit the floor
with a quivering mew, I certainly knew
the cat would look, for a quiet nook
and there would stay, until a better day
but my husband looked, like his brain had been cooked
in the dim light of the clock, he seemed quite shocked
sitting there on the floor, feeling his face that was sore
"what the hell?" he mumbled, as he fought the sheet jumbled
I said go back to sleep and give me that sheet
because my feet are cold and I'm getting old
my hip is aching and you've been making
all kinds of noise, like little boys with their toys
he scratched his head, and got back into bed
I straightened the sheet, and said "go back to sleep"
so in he wiggled, and quietly I giggled
and thought, there are still tales to be told
even at sixty years old
Poetry by Phyllis J. Rhodes
Read 603 times
Written on 2008-10-15 at 05:27
Save as a bookmark (requires login) Write a comment (requires login) Send as email (requires login) Print text
|
Damon |
|
Kathy Lockhart |
| Texts |
 by Phyllis J. Rhodes Latest textsWhateverStress Naughty Limerick He's Been Leaving Decisions, Decisions |
Increase font
Decrease