You gorgeous young stuck-up son of a bitch.
Right now you are tasty
but strange hairs of grey will soon be sprouting
in unlikely patches
while as if in exchange those on your head
will fall off in batches
and your once proud skin sags down with despair
all wrinkled and pasty
You too will become an “old troll” as I.
You don’t believe me now...
and you won’t believe it then.
You’ll gape at yourself in the mirror and cry
“Who is this creature who stands in my place?
Who bears my proud name
but bends downward with shame?
And what became of my once pretty face?
How can so much of me have changed, passed by,
when I am still the same? The same?”
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