Yes, today I’m fifty-two.
Little doubt, much more than you.
Behold my fruitful time on Earth
Ignore my rather meatful girth.
I wake and contemplate the sun
That’s risen every day since One
And wonder if there’ll be one more
And if it be, just what’s in store.
With hurting heels I crawl from bed
Leave mindless epithets unsaid
And think of maybe making tea
But then I think “Why should this be?”
“I’m fifty-two years old,” I think.
”Fuck this tea. I need a drink.”
So many dawns; so many days
Ushered forth with bland Earl-Greys?
The frozen vodka mutely cries
The stalks of celery arise.
The Worcestershire, Tabasco, dill
(My recipe is in my will).
And so I now this nectar sip
My celery within it dip
Fuck, many more ‘fore setting sun!
And no more tea till I am done.