Tuesday, January 5, 2016

Put out to pasture

Who will hire me
When I am fifty-three
A younger gal he’ll want
With breasts that he can see

Experience I have
But really does that matter
The younger girl is slim
And I have gotten fatter

I’ll take most any job
A job that hardly pays
So picky I can’t be
Perhaps I’ll get a raise

Between my aching back
And standing on my feet
I’d rather have a job
Where I can take a seat

They’ll put me out to pasture
When I turn sixty-five
That only is of course
That I am still alive

By, Randee Saber  1/5/2016