When I am eighty
I will live in a white stone cottage
Older than me
It will have thick walls and small windows
To make a cosy den
A fence made of sticks
Higgledy piggledy like my bones
I will be happy and content
Though my back will be bent
And my stomach will droop
Below the waistline of my pants
And I will not care one bit
As I smile and I pick
The slugs off the lettuce
And feed them to the ducks
While humming an old song
That I wrote in my forties
Called Lullaby for Me
With a melody so gentle
It soothed and healed me whole

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