If I was a garden I’d be overrun with weeds
for I haven’t had the maintenance a tidy garden needs.
If I was a car you might be thinking of a trade-in,
considering my bodywork and the year I was made in.
If I was a dog I’d be the friendliest of pets
yet soon I’d start to cost a bleeding fortune at the vets.
As a house I’d have a run-down air of quaint dilapidation
and visitors would point out where there’s scope for renovation.
If I was a sofa I’d be tattered, frayed and baggy,
I’d swallow up the elderly in cushions flat and saggy.
If I was Minestrone in a pantry in a tin,
you’d scrutinise my sell by date then chuck me in the bin.
So though these dark imaginings might seem a touch surreal
I think they serve to illustrate how ****ing old I feel.
General Poetry - post, comment, review, critique
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