Still Rising

I thought that I would never see
another cake with candles three.
That year my Mummy never guessed
that I would rise before she dressed,
before the sun announced the day
when I got out of bed to play.

I think that life remains quite fair
without my early rising flair.
I still can walk without a cane,
and intimately live with ...
  acetaminophen.
Such poems are made by fools like me
who still arise at eighty-three.