My
Memory's Just Fine, Thank you.
Just a line to say I'm living, That I'm not among the
dead. I'm just getting more forgetful, And more
mixed up in the head.
One thing I can't remember when I stand at the foot of the
stair, Was I going up for something Or did I just come down from
there?
I stand before the refrigerator, My poor mind filled with
doubt: Have I just put the food away? Or have
I come to take it out?
Then snug in robe and nightgown, With curlers on my head . .
. Was I going to retire? Or . . . just getting out of bed?
So if it is my turn to write you There is no need of getting
sore, I probably think that I have written And don't want to be
a bore.
I'm going out to mail this letter, For the mailman's almost here
. . . I look forward to your answer, For now, goodbye, my dear.
P.S.
There I stood beside the mailbox, With a face so very red,
Instead of mailing you my letter, I had opened it instead ! ! !
