Broken Spell Poem by Mary Champion

You know that you're past it, one foot in the grave,
when your toy-boy becomes an old git.
When he sounds more like Meldrew than your bold young brave,
you know that it's high time to quit.

He once made you thrill with desire,
now he slumps down in front of the fire,
watching the telly and growing his gut,
snoozing and snoring, yes he's in a rut;
immersed in his middle-aged view.
God knows what that says about you!