She was 87 years old,
A widow for a long, long time.
'Mom, you have your life on hold.'
The widow snapped, 'What's that - a crime? '
Soon thereafter, she tempted fate,
So that her daughter might butt out.
The widow went on a blind date
With 90 year old Mr. Prout.
The widow returned, 'That's the last -'
'You never know what men will do.'
The widow's daughter looked aghast,
'Did Mr. Prout get fresh with you? '
'If only, ' the widow replied.
'No - Mr. Prout just up and died.'
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
Nightingale is right! Humur & rythm are mutual ingredients!