Ah, when one’s only seventeen
the Belgian Buns are fresh and doughy,
pages are blank, one’s slate is clean.
A very happy birthday, Zoe.

I wish ’twas me instead of you
enjoying all this teenage fun.
Your whole life lies ahead of you
(except the tiny bit you’ve done).

More withered grows my floral store
the more yours blossoms, ripens, blooms.
O, woe is me, I’m thirty four!
Decrepit, senile old age looms!

But when I was your age, young miss,
I gambolled like a frisky fawn
and reddened the metropolis
till night itself was red with dawn.

My good looks would provide for me
fond glances, as they shall for you.
A thousand sweethearts sighed for me
(well, okay, maybe one or two).

But now my frame, once full of dance,
is full of sweets and Belgian Buns.
The air now carries no fond glance
from naughty girls (nor even nuns).

So if an overweight has-been
might offer one quite useful tip
to someone just turned seventeen,
keep free from Belgian Buns your lip.

Heed this and Zoe shall become
(as in her gender's name-index
and, to the joy of Dad and Mum)
the ultimate in all her sex.