Sometimes a smart-ass, maybe a bimbo
A spoilt diva, or an errant child, a promiscuous whore,
I’m none of these, or all, but one thing’s for sure,
The calendar tells me I am no longer twenty four.
The family wants me married off
while the boys cause much frustration
but excuse me, mister, this nerd needs to study
to get her masters in business administration
They tell me age is just a number
Then why oh why do I have the blues?
Or is it because it’s time to go shopping
for a new pair of patent leather shoes?
And Jups, where’s the wishlist, you ask
and I say dahling, I ask for nothing new
If you can afford them,the Diors, the Mulberries,
and let’s not forget Furla, Blahnik and the Choo?
I’ll be back in town next week,
I know you can’t contain your glee,
I’ll wear something hot and we’ll go dancing,
And you can sing a belated Happy birthday to meeeeeeeeeeeee!
The mandatory bad-poetry for the birthday- it is a day late, most regrettably- but one’s privacy has suffered. Also, as part of the birthday celebration I have spent yesterday and today buried in the latest Harry Potter (which kicks way too much ass!). So yes, I’ve been busy- which is also an explanation (somewhat) for why this year’s poem is so much suckier than last years’.
For all practical purposes (i.e. since I get back to Singapore next week), the birthday shall be re-celebrated over the next weekend with much needed alcohol and meat and men. One does one’s best- see you there!