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These legs, way back in '96,
Were more akin to slender sticks,
And now  these log-like meaty thighs
Are really far too great in size.

This face, in youth a spotless ground,
Bright as a jonquil, soft and round,
Today's a field where black crops grow
Without the former pristine glow.

A shirt, once just a trifle tight
Some years ago, has picked a fight
With this big belly, all unfit,
And bloating daily, bit by bit.

Some silver foes who hide among
This hair suggest 'Not quite so young'.
In no time, with their heads held high,
They'll rise, revolt, and multiply.

A hundred other changes, too,
Have come about and are on view
In this old glass in front of me.
A sight to shock S. Banerjee!

But I can't stand here all day long,
And think of more things going wrong.
My friends are riled. I hear them shout,
"We've lit the candles! Please come out!"