I always heard these are the Golden Years
Though just when they start I’m not sure
Nobody mentioned they bring on new fears
Like irksome inflictions for which there’s no cure
I shouldn’t complain because I’m quite well
Though I’ve worried about death since age seven
My mother once told me I’m destined for Hell
Even worse, there’s no space left in Heaven
What’s best about my Golden Years up to now
Monday mornings, I don’t go to work
Having no job seemed a most dismal fate
But then it became life’s best perk
I’m happy my Golden Years all fit in one sonnet
The credit must go to the bees in my bonnet
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