Methuselah ate what he found on his plate,
and never, as people do now,
did he note the amount of the calorie count;
he ate it because it was chow.
He wasn't disturbed as at dinner he sat,
devouring a roast or a pie,
to think it was lacking in granular fat
or a couple of vitamins shy.
He cheerfully chewed each species of food,
unmindful of troubles or fears
lest his health might be hurt
by some fancy dessert;
and he lived over nine hundred years!
(Author Unknown)
Thanks for reading and commenting, Wes, and thanks for letting me use your picture as Methuselah!
Kim, Thanks for sharing! you will have to show me the book, sounds like an interesting read.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
Laughed out loud at the poet's notes! Hilarious! Worth five stars for the notes alone!