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I’m not so keen on New Year’s Day.
I know I ought to look ahead,
And trust the months to come will prove
Far better than those just gone through.
But all my thoughts are turned towards the past.
I focus on the end of what is old,
Not on the start of something new.
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And Christmas Day I can’t abide:
Forced merriment, forced feeding,
Tetchy kinfolk, tantrums, broken toys.
A let-down after weeks of hype.
An insult to the creed of Christ.
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As for my birthday, I’m afraid
I see no cause to celebrate.
Another candle on the cake,
Another step towards the grave.
A few more hairs fall from my pate,
And those that stay are turning grey.
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My Wedding Anniversary, perhaps?
This day when solemn vows were swapped
Is surely worthy of being marked,
And should see me in best of mood.
Why yes, but nothing special there,
For every day I thank my stars
That “she had eyes and chose me.”
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Three hundred five and sixty days,
And one alone to truly taste:
The Football Season’s Opening Day.
For when this frabjous morning dawns,
Who could regret having been born?
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Into my crystal ball I gaze.
I strive to see what lies in store,
And dream of glittering Silverware.
On this more than all other days,
My heart sings, my pulse rate quickens,
And the hills are alive…