I don't know, you youngsters and your text-speak.

I am 51. :)

There also exists* the acronym IMHOTEP (In My Humble Opinion, Though Expressed Pungently): for use when one wishes to be deferential, but also vehement. This acronym has a long history, pre-dating the Internet, mobile phones and computers; being found even on some ancient Egyptian monuments.

*[at least, it exists now].

[quote=Graham King;296173]I am 51. :)

I'm 40! But you're obviously younger at heart.

poetic pitch - but just for fun (who can resist such a pun?)
 

Black as treacle
Dark and sticky
Traps your vehicle -
Thick and tricky!
Highly viscous
Drips per decade:
(‘Blink, you’ll miss us,
Be left dismayed.’)
At la Brea
Dire wolves caught it;
Couldn’t flee a-
Way - so bought it
(The farm, that is -
‘Rancho’, local)
No doubt, piteous-
Ly most vocal.
Yes, you’ve guessed it:
The substance which
Thusly messed it;
My name is PITCH.

[By way of explanation: an experiment has actually been running for decades to watch pitch drip. It has dripped and been caught doing so. A previous drip was missed when the experimenter left the room or monitoring equipment was off or somesuch.
Rancho la Brea is an American site near Los Angeles, where ancient tar-pits posing as harmless pools of water have lured to their doom thirsty herbivores (now extinct, though not solely for that reason) and (probably as a consequence seeing them trapped and looking like easy prey) numerous hungry carnivores, especially of the wonderfully-named species, the Dire Wolf.]

Will church bells ring to celebrate
It as the nation’s gain?
(Found: new Poet Laureate!)
Or toll: a drain, a pain?

Boring stuff (Slough of Despond
To wade through) will he pen?
Or dainty ditties, of which they’ll be fond -
Ladies and gentlemen?

In frowzy city streets, ambitious clerks
Who yearn to park their own, new, sleek Lagonda;
The rural tennis-girls, in pressed white frocks -
Will they welcome the next appointee yonder?

This honour may seem venal, earthy -
It will be in all the daily news.
I doubt whether I’m really worthy -
But I also doubt I shall refuse.

(John Betjeman)

It’s vacant, so in pensive mood
I ponder: could this post be mine?
T’would end the bliss of solitude,
And by applause my life define…

I wonder, lonely, as a crowd
Of other poets round me vies
To be appointed: quiet, loud;
Modest and proud; bold jesters, wise;

As brightly in the public eye
As daffodils that bloom may dance,
So poets laureate must try
To captivate the passing glance!

Still, if I’m not appointed, may
I here suggest (who could resist her?)
That Your Majesty would, pray,
Consider Dorothy - my sister?

(William Wordsworth)

Crow I stand, black
on this tor (stack
of rugged books)
my perch of fame

my name gives pause
now noised abroad
not least by me
(I have clear cause)

winged words I wield;
scooping deft air,
pluck easy meat
from this opportune day

my steelbright eye
that pierces clouds of doubt
now sees my future sustenance laid out:
I think it’s a dead cert.

(Ted Hughes)

The U.S. has Poet Laureate too, you know. Can we play?

“You are old, Mr Dodgson”, Lord Salisbury exclaimed,
“And you’ve written some tosh about Alice;
What on earth makes you think that you ought to be named
As the Poet to Buckingham Palace?”

“In my youth”, I replied, “I was happily lost in
The works of the Laureate Wordsworth.
But now there is talk of appointing old Austin,
Whose poems have scarcely a turd’s worth.

I therefore conceived it would be quite a lark
To emerge from my clerical cloisters.
I've written an epic concerning the Snark,
And a heart-rending story of Oysters.

My poetical talents are not to be doubted:
The Jabberwock - what could be gorier?
As Laureate, let poor old Austin be routed -
Choose me for our dear Queen Victoria!”

Quite brilliant, Brian, as usual. Never knew his real name was Dodgson!

William McGonagall’s application to succeed Alfred Lord Tennyson as poet laureate

And so the great and good Lord Tennyson is gone,
A subject that I very recently wrote a stirring eulogy upon.
And now a new poet laureate must be had
Even though Queen Victoria must still be a little bit sad.

Her Majesty must choose a poet who is equally at home
Writing a celebratory poem or a disaster poem,
Someone who can write poetry that is highly moral
That she can read at the fireside up in Balmoral.

It would need to be a poet who is quite prolific
and who the popular masses think is really terrific.
Of course, she may choose a learned man with a monocle
But she could do worse than hiring William Topaz McGonagall.

McGonagall, the people cry, would be the natural successor
To the now dead Lord Tennyson who would be his predecessor.
Last week, they said, he rose and wrote a poem before he ate
Which is a great talent in a prospective poet laureate.