Some forty years had gone,
things went their usual way
and, as they say abroad,
time just went by. It did.
Kids grown and hubbies fat
the grind goes on, no medals here,
could this be all there is, she asks
and nods her pretty head,
and all its wrinkles, all her lipo spots,
at one who's done the deed,
lived, as they say, rambunctiously
and was somewhat content to sit
to let the world and all its troubles pass,
because he thought that even God was a big ass.
The springs would sag in something old,
the shockies worn,
the youthful shine washed off
a dentist for a friend.
Now nearing seventy
please, folks, it is not on!
I thought that pheromones
would die before the end.
They did defy what would be fair,
and folks believed,
convention did not hold a promise, none at all.
There was a meteor, so hapless and bereaved
none ever mattered, they had antigens to share.
Note: I like C-Antigens
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.