Come up for a 50th birthday, he said
Fifty? We cried, he’s off his head
Just because he’s seen six decades or more
And his hair has turned silver white to the core
There’s no need to rustle up rumours juicy
Maligning his lovely, much younger wife Lucy
You need only take one look at her
And with him you will not concur
Her auburn hair, it’s fair to say
Does not betray a hint of grey
Her youthful manner, meek and mild
Why, she’s no more than a sweet young child
Like every coy young girl of course
Lucy’s pride and joy’s her horse
She spends her days not lounging about
But in the stables mucking out
If this woman were really that old
D’you think she would have been so bold
To make in life a brand new start
And go to college to study art?
Not for Lucy the classical or sedate
Lucy’s art would adorn the modern Tate
No, a woman of that imagination
Cannot possibly be the creation
Of nineteen hundred and fifty-five
She’s far too vibrant and alive
And to her can’t possibly belong
Three adult offspring, something’s wrong
She must be just an older pal
To James and his sisters Charlotte and Cal
Still, after a lengthy consultation
We’ve accepted David’s invitation
His ugly little birthday rumour
We thought we’d come along and humour
We’ll drink his beer and quaff his wine
And eat his food, but draw the line
At believing that Lucy’s reached big Five-O
We’ve got a better plan you know
Let’s raise a glass and cheer Lucy then
And celebrate her forty-ten!

© Joanne Ross – 5th February 2005