Fifty-Two

Today is my 52nd Birthday (no best wishes or smug reminders required) and I have received already a small supply of cards and emails and gifts . . . mostly from relatives who feel compelled to send along their condolences and gags. My mother even sent me a card filled with exorbitant lies, detailing how much she loves me and telling me how I rocked her world 52 years ago (she would have preferred a poodle, I'm sure . . . and I know my Dad was kicking himself back then, wishing he had completed that vasectomy sooner).

Still, 52 years is nothing to sneeze at.  I've lived more than a half century.  And a birthday should always be cause for reflection. So . . . let me reflect.

Fifty-Two

Back there in the past
When I used to drive fast
My chassis was shimmering new,
And all my gears turned
Cause my wife made them burn,
But now I just drive fifty-two.

I'm not in a hurry
Or head-start or flurry
To find something better to do,
These days I drive slow
Wherever I go
And I never exceed fifty-two.

Sure, I can recall
When my wife had it all
And we burned down the highway or flew,
But now that the years
Have rusted my gears
I don't push it past fifty-two.

I guess I could curse,
But things could be worse
Considering all I've been through,
I'm not yet a wreck
Or a pain in the neck
Since my throttle has hit fifty-two.

And I'm sure, by and by,
When I'm ready to die
And pull into the pits with the crew,
That my wife will confess,
"He created this mess
When he pushed himself past fifty-two."