Will You Still Need Me, Will You Still Feed Me?
Dear John,
I'm sniffling so as I pen you this letter.
It's so hard to tell you:
It doesn't get better!
Your bones have gone wanky, the telly's all bleary.
When it's time for amour,
Guess what? You're too weary!
Your heart's out of sinus, no blanket for Linus.
The feeling is oozing all out of your toes.
Is it callous to say: that's how it goes?
The tallies are all reading minus.
(But you are now officially the most profound blow hard on the block!)
As one 64 to another, Happy Birthday!
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