It's your birthday, happy birthday to you
It's your birthday, good luck to you
No wonder i'm confused
There is too much to remember
Too little space to put everything
I have to offload some of this baggage
No wonder people resent me
Twenty one thousand eight hundred and forty days
Someone had to feed me
Someone had to talk to me
Someone had to love me
Someone had to hate me
I haven't become more attractive
Though i have to wash more
But my hair is easier to comb
Old dogs come across the street
For one last smell
And i have a affinity with them
Other human beings look at you
And wonder why your still here
When i blow children a kiss
They run the other way
The days are becoming shorter
But they are filled with more
I used to be a angry young man
Now i'm a cranky old bastard
But i will mellow
As my skin turns yellow
Written on the eighteenth september 2005
Allan James Saywell
http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/twenty-one-thousand-eight-hundred-and-forty-days/
