Sunday, December 21, 2008

The Poetry Corner

Methusaleh ate what they piled on his plate
And never, as people do now,
Did he note the amount of the calorie count,
He ate it because it was chow.

He wasn’t disturbed as at dinner he sat,
Devouring a roast or a pie,
To think it was loaded with granular fat,
Or a couple of vitamins shy.

He joyfully chewed on all kinds of food,
Unmindful of troubles or fears,
Lest his health might be hurt by some fancy dessert.
So he died – after nine hundred years.


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