Lilian hit eighty-five,
Shot nine holes for forty-eight;
Drives her car not to be late.
Man alive, she's eighty-five.
That's not far off, Bro,
A few thousand weeks,
I ride my Shadow,
Shoot thirty-eight.
That's not far off, Sis,
A few thousand hits,
So I'm shooting for eighty-six,
Playing with my balls and sticks.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem