A good friend of mine, who regularly bombards me with poetry he thinks is clever or beautiful (which means that The New Yorker refuses to publish it) sent me a small ditty he wrote one night when he managed to catch a look at the man in the mirror. He noted that he observed this man everyday, but that, for whatever reason, he seemed off or perhaps more real. My friend also observed that this man, who used to be young and handsome, was beginning to lose a bit of the spark he had ten years ago. I assured my friend that it happens to us all, but he wouldn’t be satisfied until I published his ditty here. I hope you might enjoy it, and wonder yourself at the man or women who looks back at you in the mirror.
–Joshua “Jammer” Smith, Head Writer/Editor White Tower Musings
My Tummy: The Millennial’s Song
My tummy’s growing larger
It’s really standing out.
My washboard’s now a Kansas hill,
I’ve lost my water spout.
My friends are getting older,
There’s wrinkles on my nose,
We’ve lost our bets and dreams and hope,
The Poets be sellin’ Prose.
And the man that brushes his teeth at night,
While I’m taking my little pink pill,
Showed such promise while he was young,
He had such daring will.
Let he who reads my little song,
Of noisome fretting complaint,
Remember that his time will come,
And while he laughs at my bad luck
his temple’s chipping paint.