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Thirty. And Counting.

Around this subject we’ve floated And even sugarcoated But the fact is, this needs to be said: Your twenties are spent Your youth’s been and went And you’re a little bit closer to dead.  Ok, not quite dead More mature like instead You’re now old and not a youngster like me. And your trumps will be blowin' Without you a knowin' And soon you will whiff of dried wee.  And then you’ll like bingo With hair pink like flamingo Your teeth will drop out of your mouth. You’ll be collecting your pension  And I didn’t want to mention, But your bits will be hanging due south. I don’t mean to diss ya You’ll still be my sister But more than that, you’re also my friend.  I love you completely  But instead of saying it sweetly I temper it with jibes about your age because I’m incapable of sincerity and probably emotionally stunted.  Enough of the quibbling Here’s to my sibling And her ageing but still beautiful smile.  Keep being naughty, Until you are forty Then maybe chill out for a while!

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