The Modern Curmudgeon

Our bedtime's a bit like roulette

That depends on the pillow you get:

And when the pillow of death

Lands beneath your neck's breadth

You awake with a pain you regret.

"I'm going to work" he explained The shirt he'd put on that day "Well you look to me Quite like a worker bee" "Actually, Dad, he said, "worker A."

Tomorrow I turn 41. What to do once these limericks are done? Will my idle hands seek Out some evil unspeak- able once this new freedom's begun?

To ashes, and once more to dust We consecrate you, here entrust You to unending sea And to eternity Swallow hard. Soldier on. As we must.

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