Raise a glass, shed a tear, I’m getting old, the end is near.

Happy Birthday to me.
I’ll just watch some TV.
We’re all still on lockdown.
Happy Birthday to me.

I planned a little birthday trip,
It would’ve been quite fun.
Now, we’re quarantined at home,
The trip has been undone.

Sixty will be a Facetime birthday.
“It’s fun!”, my dear wife said.
I’ll see my brother’s smiling face,
And the top of my Mom’s head.

Happy Birthday to me.
I loathe Twenty-Twenty.
I’m going stir-crazy,
Happy Birthday to me.

Fifty-nine (Last Day)

My last day at fifty-nine years old.
Tomorrow’s the big 6-0.
There’s no big celebrations,
Quarantine’s the status quo.

The decade started with joining AARP
At least I didn’t exit in a hearse.
The next one must be better,
I know it can’t get no worse.

Birthday Plans

My birthday is this Tuesday.
I will spend it recovering from taxes.
Oh, such fun is my birthday!

I will be fifty-nine years old.
Too young to die,
Too old to work at IBM.

My party is not on Tuesday.
My party is this afternoon.
My family celebrates on weekends.

My family is weird that way.
The government moved holidays to Monday,
And my parents misread the memo.

So, today is my party.
Yee haw!
I still won’t get a pony.

Maybe Tuesday a pony will arrive.
I’m not holding my breath.
Who can hold their breath for two days?


Happy Birthday to you!
Another trip around the sun.
Some trips are annoying,
Some trips are fun.

That’s where they rhyming part ends.
My head hurts and I can’t find
My rhyming dictionary.
So, another crappy birthday poem follows.

My apologies in advance.
I hope it’s not a bore.
I should just say Rocky wrote it,
So people would cry for more.

Sigh. I’m not bitter about that.

Here’s an interesting fact.
If you had walked a mile each day,
Since the day you were born,
That would be 19,710 miles!

Your Fitbit would be very happy.
Also, you would have been walking at birth,
A very impressive feat! (feet?)
So, this is probably hypothetical.

Your Mom probably would have stopped you,
Since you shouldn’t be walking that young.
On the other hand, I’ve met your siblings,
So maybe she would have said, “Bon Voyage!”

Back to the hypothetical walking,
Today, you would be almost 80% of the way
Around the earth (give or take).
Holding your breath across the ocean-y bits.

However, you keep insisting on taking cruise ships.
So, walking around the world is probably out.
Also, you would have ended up back in New York.
Since the world is round-ish.

So, you’re in Dallas, not New York.
You’re a year older, but at least you’re not 55.
It could be worse, because it could always be worse.
Did I mention Rocky wrote this?

Happy Birthday.

Birthday Party

A birthday party is for the young,
When you discuss hopes and dreams.
As you get older, the topics change,
To aches and pains and schemes.

Somewhere about that special time,
A person gets his first real job,
Much of the magic disappears.
As work makes your head throb.

“What are you going to be when you grow up?”
Is a happy question, full of hope.
“Is this what you’re doing the rest of your life?”
Just doesn’t have the same scope.

Also, the toys get much more expensive,
So, the gifts just aren’t as nice.
Eventually, you don’t get toys at all.
You get petty cash or just advice.

A youngster gets his first bike,
And the world becomes his yard.
An old fart gets a generous check,
And thinks, “Pay off Visa or MasterCard?”

Eventually, you discuss deaths.
Remembering the deceased is so much fun.
When the only party guests are family,
You begin to think you’re almost done.

A birthday party for an old fart
Is just a dinner party with cake.
The cake may be sugar or gluten-free,
But, at least you get some cake.

Fifty Four

I still don’t feel old,
I guess I really should.
I’m writing my life lessons,
I told myself I would.

I shouldn’t waste money,
But I just can’t be a miser.
I’m another year older,
And another Budweiser.

Salesmen can be useful,
Those just aren’t the ones I get.
Lawyers can be honest,
It’s just not the way to bet.

You can fall in love,
You can fall in really deep.
But whomever you may find to love,
No-one beats a good night’s sleep.

It’s too late to be on the stage,
I’ll just stand here by the riser.
I’m another year older,
And another Budweiser.

Lots of (funny) failures,
Very occasional success.
I’ve tried to be myself,
Just never to excess.

I made fast food in high school.
Burgers, fries and all.
So, I’m an unemployed chef
Whenever Food Network calls.

I won’t ever be a King.
I won’t even be the Kaiser.
I’m just another year older,
And another Budweiser.

A long time ago

A long time ago,
And far, far away,
I saw her standing there,
Watching some new band play.

The Beatles changed the world.
Their music still resounds.
It’s better than today’s pop,
But this isn’t really about them.

The year before the Sullivan show,
(an even longer time ago),
My wife came into this world.
Not a band, but solo.

Her family pokes fun,
They tell her now she’s old.
She’s the baby, though,
So their insults run cold.

I would never poke fun.
It’s not my style.
I try to honor the aged,
As they begin their final mile.

All I can say is:

Oh, yeah, I tell you something,
I think you’ll understand.
When I tell you something,
I wanna hold your hand.

Mainly because,
I really don’t think
You should cross the street alone.
Not at your age.


This is the anniversary of the day
I put my Mom in the hospital.
(It’s OK, it’s just my birthday.)

April 16, 1960 was a Saturday. 
It was the day before Easter. 
After I was born that day, 
It became Holy Saturday.
(That’s an old family joke. Very old.)

If I had been born in 1930, 
I would have five years left to go.
However, life expectancy keeps going up,
So, I probably have much longer, 
Even though I am surrounded by Italians.
(I’m looking at you, Debbie and Virginia.)

53 is a pretty boring age since it’s not divisible by anything.
It’s not a five-year or ten-year anniversary.
It’s a prime number, so it’s just the 53rd anniversary.
What a snooze. 

Don’t Google stuff on your birthday.
John Denver died when he was 53.
So, did Jerry Garcia.
So, a beloved, gifted musician and John Denver.
Oh, joy.
(Apologies to John Denver fans. Take me home, country roads.)

I guess it’s time for a mid-life crisis. 
I would quit my job and open a bar, 
But I watch Restaurant Impossible
So I know that’s a bad idea. 

I could run off to sea and change my life, 
But crew don’t get balcony rooms, 
So, that’s not going to work. 

I suppose the biggest challenge I have today
Is figuring out how to get out of this stupid poem.
It’s rambling even worse than some of the stuff
I wrote when I was 52. 

That seems like a long time ago. 

Birthday Blues

I really don’t like my birthday much anymore.
I’m not really sure why, it used to be fun.
(I think it used to be fun.)
As I got older, it got less meaningful.
Is there that much difference between 52 and 53?

When you’re young, you’re the center of attention.
As you age, your kids are there,
Then your grandkids join in,
And, face it, they outrank you.
Plus, now you’re paying for your own parties sometimes.

Unfortunately, I was born the day after taxes are due,
So, once I got married (and divorced and remarried),
I had just spent three to five weekends or more
Calculating how little money we had and how much we had spent.
Worrying about wives and kids spending too much on you
Will always take much of the joy out of presents.

Also, presents get more expensive over time.
A Hot Wheels Lamborghini costs a lot less than a real one.
Not that anyone is ever going to buy me a real one.
Or even a Smart car.
(Mom-in-law did buy me a remote-control Mustang once. She was cool.)

What do you want for your birthday?
“A pony! A pony!” says someone under fifteen.
Over forty, it becomes something like:
“I would like to finally be out of debt. ” or
“I would like  my tests to be negative.”

Growing old can be really hard,
I suppose that’s why we still celebrate birthdays.
Even if they also make you think of the ones you’ve lost.
You realize someday you might be older than your relatives,
Because they’ve stopped aging.
(Stopping aging may be worse than birthdays.)

I’m having cake later today (I’m told), and
I commit to do my best to be non-grumpy,
But I’m not promising anything.
After all, I’m old. And grumpy.

I will say this –
After this year,  if everyone decides to skip my birthday,
Or move to once-per-decade celebrations,
Or just post insincere “Happy Birthday” notes on Facebook,
I’m down with that.

At least the taxes are done.