The Modern Curmudgeon

You left, and you weren't coming back

For some time, we'd been on the wrong track.

You were finicky. Skittish.

So at last now we're finished.

You are dead. Long live my new Mac.

"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?

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