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“Growing old is mandatory;

Growing up is optional.”

                            ~Chili Davis

Today is my lovely spouse’s birthday,

She hates being teased about her age;

But like a blooming old idiot,

I always do it anyway.

I have constantly reminded her,

That age exists only in our minds,

But I had to hide our frying pan,

I truly would not like being fried.

To make matters even worse,

I just remembered her birthday two days ago,

I knew I had to come up with something,

That would proclaim my love most bold.

I soon rushed out to get her some fragrant flowers,

But all the gems in my neighbor’s yard had died,

So I quickly raced over to the local candy store,

But the sale had already ended; gosh darn it, I tried.

Then I excitedly thought about

Getting her some camping gear or beer,

When I very sadly realized

That’s what I had gotten her last year.

So, I raced over to a woman’s clothing store,

To excitedly purchase a blouse, skirt, or dress,

When I suddenly realized I didn’t know her size,

And God forbid I should make the wrong guess.

Next, I rushed over to the animal shelter,

Thought that I would get her a pet,

When I very sadly realized

She hasn’t gotten over the last seven yet.

So, I eventually decided

To enroll her in AARP,

But when I thought it over,

I realized membership wasn’t free.

Then at dawn’s early light, it finally hit me,

That’s when I jumped up and said, “Aah!”

I quickly rummaged through a chest in our attic,

And came up with an elegant old Babushka.

I truly hope my dear wife likes it,

I suppose it’s in fashion with women her age,

So I guess I’m not so dumb after all,

I kind of think this gift is sage.

I’ve already written out her birthday card,

I’ve penned these sentiments from my heart,

And I find this to be extremely touching,

From her extremely romantic old fart.

“My dearest dearest Darling,

I present this Babushka to you,

I loved my granny who wore it,

And Sweetie, I truly love you, too!”

Happy Birthday, Honey!

Wow! Writing this romantic poem was lots of fun,

I wonder if I could compete with Handsum Hart?

Maybe I will change my name to:

The Romantic Old Fart.

(On second thought, I am dead meat.)

(I sure hope she doesn’t read this poem.)

(And I better take her to McDonalds for dinner.)

Bye…