I wake up in the morning

Thinking ‘I must look twenty one’

But then look into the mirror

And say ‘who the f**k’s yer one?


The crows are non-stop flying

All around the place

The poor birds can’t land anywhere

Cos’ their feet are on my face!


Then you have the ‘Ronnie’

The odd stubborn poxy hair

While  putting on your lipstick

You say ‘how the f**k did that get there?


I’ve creams for that

And wax for this

The pelvic floor is wrecked

I’m leaking  ….  (water)


I’d try post-natal yoga

But my kids are twenty three

Nine months in my belly

That now hangs down to my knee

I’d like to think its gravity

That’s the logic in my head

But it’s the weight of fecking cellulite

That’s diving south instead


It’s not fair that the blokes grow old

with signs of aging much more sparse

Apart from sagging bum cheeks

That they used to call an arse


But then again, they have the prostate

Ah sure, the poor oul little loves

They’re afraid to pick the post up

If you’re wearing rubber gloves.


So I suppose we best accept it

Though ageing doesn’t make us happy

And look out for “2 for 1” on pampers

In case we wind up back in nappies


Sinead Hamill –

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