Sunday Squibs

 

Said placenta to fetus we're leaving old pard

Me to the ash heap, you to the yard 

And though it feels like it, you're not going to die 

Once we have split, have yourself a good cry

AI is the Bitcoin of the Arts.

That extra precaution feels like being too nice

But when IT hits the fan you’ll be glad you flushed twice 

We gladly fly into our lover's soft paws

But on spreading our wings - note retractable claws 

Waning and waxing are very close friends 

One slowly eats what the other one lends

The larder sits empty three nights for amends

Then waxing starts over, world without end

If you're going to take risks

Have a net down below

Or at least a thick carpet 

To soften the blow 

We seniors have tricks to make our lives bright

Aids for poor hearing - cheaters for sight

Our devices are fixed by our grandkids, dear mites

While to open the chips bag we use dynamite 

Love is the place where it's safe to be annoying. 

And the best place to become less so.

We oldsters complain that the young folks won't serve

Where have they gone? They have quite the nerve

We think that we know, but our theories are crazy

It's us baby boomers who've grown fat and lazy

With the silk of a spider 

We cut slack to our lover

Till snug in a web

We lie under cover