It's my birthday today. I'm seventy one. There's not much
To celebrate. I've gotten old and become but a list of annoying
Afflictions, a heart that beats wrong, a hip made of metal,
A spleen swollen up by excessive white blood cells, and word
That things aren't going right with my kidneys. I tire too
Quickly, and pass through a world long leached of its novelty.
I cannot find things engaging or pleasing, since everything I see
Already is known. Exhaustion, discomfort, a hollow existence;
Given that these have accrued with the years, should I sing,
Happy birthday to me?