I know, I know the exact word
I use it very frequently.
Then suddenly, it’s quite absurd.
I cannot trust my memory.
I’ve always trusted it before
and it has never let me down.
But that’s is not true anymore
and forms a reason for my frown.
My daughter says it just might be
because I’m getting on a bit.
I cannot possibly agree.
I’m aghast at the cheek of it.
I’m not old just eighty three.
I do not doubt that I will be
the first one of my family
to reach my own centenary.
What does it matter I forget
some little things occasionally
I know what’s getting me upset
Her lack of sensitivity.
The word will come if I just wait
That is a racing certainty
But I do not appreciate
a recaltricant memory.
There must be something I can do,
to stimulate my memory.
I think I’ll take up something new
Some thing active probably.
I may be old but I’m still fit
to think and act competently
My daughter talks a load of bull
I won’t forgive her easily.
Thursday,12 November 2009
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This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
yes always true we love our daughters yet some thing unrest in us evoke............. beautiful presentation..............