MEMOIR OF AN ANCIENT LADY WRITER
I used to be fastidious
Now I'm just slow, and tedious.
Outside I'm plump – I'm slim within
And when I speak my voice is thin.
My hair is red with greying roots
And men who cared don't give two hoots.
My friends are old, or else they're dead
The rest of them all lie abed.
My hands no longer open jars.
My feet don't wander into bars.
I cannot race and win the cup
I've too much trouble keeping up.
It's the race itself that is the prize
not winning, like those other guys.
So I'll keep running till I drop
And hope my last book's not a flop.