Poem on turning 70

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November 21, 2016

The following poem was sent in by Chris King, who has just turned 70 and decided to mark the event with this rhyme.

It’s three score years and ten, and then
We’re living on some borrowed time.
Some of the ways we say Amen
I’ve included in this rhyme.
To shuffle off this mortal coil.
To pop your clogs, fall off the perch.
To end this life of grief and toil
With your last visit to the church.
Be flat lining, give up the ghost
Breathe one’s last on the gate-keeper.
Your number’s up, it’s the last post.
It’s time to meet the Grim Reaper.
Kicked the bucket, and bought the farm,
So soon we’ll be six feet under
Pushing up daisies like a charm
Victim of some nursing blunder.
Is there really a better place?
Where one goes to meet one’s maker
The way of all flesh, in this case
Before we see the undertaker.

Some of us here are seventy.
Most faculties are still intact.
In life there is no certainty.
There may yet be another act.
Some may have one foot in the grave
And suffer from forgetfulness.
And some of us might misbehave
And cause our friends and partners stress.
Whilst there might be some theatrics
And we’re identified as this:
Degenerating geriatrics
With whom there is something amiss.
Good health we now cannot assume.
We’re out of breath with joints that ache.
For birthdays now, there isn’t room
For all the candles on the cake.
One thing on which we might agree
In spite of what’s been in this rhyme.
The future we cannot foresee,
And so, right now, we’re in our prime!

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