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    TAGS: aging, meaning of life     STASHED BY: pam   'mouse  

A baby was born with a shiny bald head,
He suckled a bit, then went straight off to bed;

Days turned to weeks, then months and then years,
He swapped breast milk for pop, and then finally beers,

Until eighty years passed and he was left tired and weak,
His eyes watery and lost, his dreams now oblique;

“A pair of fine breasts and a soft comfortable bed,
Those are the things I’ll miss when I’m dead.”