My mum made it to eighty years this week,
She smiles and walks and talks like all of us,
Eighty years is of course not that unique,
But twenty years not paying for the bus?
Some children die inside their mother's womb,
Some babies die too young to even smile,
But what of where and why and when and whom,
Do we wait in a queue in single file?
So one by one we shuffle off the earth,
Without a thought for age or what we've done,
Without a thought for what we think we're worth,
Or whether we're a good or wayward son.
So death he comes and takes us all away,
But not my mum, who's eighty years today.
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