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Monday, July 1, 2013

P. S.

P. S. – I love you.
For all the things you've done;
and yet to do,
I feel oh so pretty;
and it’s all because of you.
Inside and out;
improvements without a doubt,
so please accept my gratitude.

P. S. – I depend on you.
You make me feel young again,
I’m like putty in your hands.
You know exactly what to do.
so precise every time we meet;
every time you do it so well,
yet you make it so discreet;
no one could ever tell.

P. S. – Until the day I die.
One thing is for sure;
you will be the only cure.
No matter how old I get, I still feel spry;
though inside I'm wasting away,
I feel younger and younger each day.
Besides, everyone keeps telling me so;
you fill me up with an inner glow.

P. S. – I must confess,
here on my deathbed as I lie;
mortality caught up to me I guess.
No matter how hard I try;
plastic surgery wasn't a cure for all.
What? P. S. – Postscript is what you thought?
How else did you think I was able to impress ya’ll;
you guessed it – with all the plastic surgery I bought.


Copyright by NewLife2008