Painfully, poor Kirby wakes,
Feels the sun with terror,
One erratic step she takes,
Trembling to the mirror.
Poor Kirby in poor Kirby's sight
Is old and gray and thrifty;
Forty-nine she was last night;
This morning she is fifty.
Cruddy like a sleepy eye,
Like the blanket, musty,
Kirb lets out a noisy sigh,
Because she feels so...rusty.
Ha! Been there, done that ;-)
ReplyDeletenice job, jj