Birthday Poems

Nearly every year, Grandad would write a poem and take a picture for his birthday. Here is a compilation of the remaining birthday poems:

I haven’t gone to Hell or Heaven

So I’ve reached the age of seventy-seven

My teeth are false, my hair is thin

But I’m in good shape for the shape I’m in

I am so pudgy my clothes don’t fit

I don’t work much, I mostly sit

I thought perhaps you’d like to see

So I took this photograph of me

I may be old and weak and slow

But I’m not ready yet to go

So I’ll just let the Devil wait

Then next year I’ll be seventy-eight.

D.B. Cox

On this very important date

I reached the age of seventy-eight

I wasn’t sure that I’d survive

But I think that I am still alive

My teeth are false, my hair’s still thin

I’m still OK for the shape I’m in

I have a lot of high-powered pills

To cure all kids of Old Age Ills

If I take my pills I’ll be just fine

Then next year I’ll be seventy-nine

D.B. Cox

HAPPY BIRTHDAY TO ME

I’ve reached the age of seventy-nine

I says to myself, “I’m feeling fine”

Self says, “Your aches and pains are few

But you’ve got lots of miles on you”

Then I says, “Yes but I’m all right

Cause I don’t smoke or drink or fight

And even though I may be queer

I’ll be eighty this time next year”

D.B. Cox

I’ve reached the age of eighty

And life has just begun

I’m in my second childhood

I should have lots of fun

If I have lots of aches and pains

It’s mostly in my head

Forget about the aches and pains

That’s what the doctor said

If I reach up for things real high

Look out, alas, alack!

Instead of getting what I want

I fall flat on my back

And then if I stoop over

To clean up this old place

I just keep going forward

And fall flat on my face

My toenails need trimming

To do that would be neat

But here’s the trouble with that chore

I cannot reach my feet

I’ll throw out my comb and brush

I’m running out of hair

My head resembles heaven

For there’s no parting there

It’s hard to read the paper

I have real poor eyesight

And all my teeth for just like stars

They come out every night

And when I go down town to eat

I find I’m prone to loiter

That’s the reason I’ve developed

This dad-burn table goiter

I guess that I’m real lucky

So I’ll stop feeling sore

And wonder what I’ll do if I

Hang on for eighty more

D.B. Cox

ANOTHER HAPPY BIRTHDAY

I’ve reach the age of eighty-two

For me that’s really something new

That equals two years plus four score

I’ve never been this old before

And though it’s sad I’ll try to grin

I’ll never be this young again

I try to cure most of my ills

By taking lots of high-priced pills

And even though I’m low on wealth

I’ll try to take care of my health

There’s lots of things I mustn’t do

So listed here are just a few

I will not ride in those fast cars

And I’ll stay out of all those bars

I won’t argue with any cop

And chasing girls will have to stop

I’ll do the things that are the best

And always get a lot of rest

I’ll be as good as I can be

Then next year I’ll be eighty-three

D.B. Cox 

I haven’t got to Hell or Heaven

And now it’s Nineteen-Eighty-Seven

I didn’t know if I’d survive

But I’m still here and half

I didn’t celebrate this year

I didn’t even have a beer

I hate to go out in the cold

I wonder if I’m getting old

I’ve reach the age of eighty-three

I’m still as happy as can be

If I catch cold and start to whine

I say to me, “You’re feeling fine”

I’m getting taller I declare

I’ve grown right straight up through my hair

If I can hand on for twelve months more

Then next year I’ll be eighty-four

D.B. Cox 

 ANOTHER BRAIN STORM

It’s Nineteen-Hundred-Eighty-Eight

And I’m too old to celebrate

I didn’t go to Hell or Heaven

In Nineteen-Hundred-Eighty-Seven

And I’m so glad that I’m still here

I’ll stay at least another year

I hope it’s better in Eighty-Eight

And the world’s not filled with so much hate

I’ve reached the age of eighty-four

That’s older than I’ve been before

It makes me sad to realize

I’ll never be this young again

So I’ll keep right on plugging away

And exercise most every day

And I’ll behave and stay alive

Then next year I’ll be eighty-five

D.B. Cox

ANOTHER OF D.B.’S BRAIN STORMS

I guess I’m still alive because

I haven’t gone to Hell or Heaven

I’ve hung around another year

And reached the age of eighty-seven

I’ve never been this old before

I’ll take it with a grin

Because I’m really sure that I

Will never be this young again

I guess the Stork delivered me

In Nineteen-Hundred-Four

It really was an awful shock

I’d never been born before

It was a cold and blustery day

So he wrapped in a nice warm cover

Then left at a home so I

Would be close to my mother

When I was just a little type

I was ornery as could be

If I had been my parents

I would have drowned me

When I was old enough for school

I wasn’t too good and not too bad

But when I finally graduated

It sure did make the teachers glad

So I kept right on growing older

And getting bigger too

I finally reached adulthood

Like most all knot-heads do

I went to work in the oil fields

I was lucky to be hired

I worked for lots and lots of years

And finally retired

I’ve been retired for a long time now

There’s been some tears but lots of laughter

And lately I’ve been thinking about

That thing called the here-after

Some say that after we pass over

We could come back again

We might be almost anything

Expect we won’t be men

If we come back again they say

We don’t know what we’ll be

I wouldn’t want to be a fly

For someone might swat me

There are lots of things I think about

I wouldn’t want to be

I’d hate to be an old plow horse

For work and I do not agree

I wouldn’t want to be a pig

For instance an old shoat

Another thing I’d hate to be

Is a dadburn billy goat

I could come back as a grizzly bear

I don’t know how one feels

They sleep from fall until spring

That’s too long between meals

If I came back as a giraffe

That’s worse than being a goat

It would be revoltin’

If I got a sore throat

I might come back as a grey wolf

But I have heard it said

If I ate some old rancher’s sheep

He’d shoot me in the head

I’d hate to be a dadburn snake

That’s worse than being a their

They say when one crawls through the grass

That tickles underneath

I’ve thought about this coming back

But after hearing what’s been said

I don’t think I’ll come back again

I think I’ll just stay dead

D.B. Cox

Another Brain Storm

We sure get tired of CHARLIE HORSE

When he pays us a call

And if he hangs around too long

We can hardly walk at all

He sure fouls up our exercise

And here' all we can say

If it wouldn't be for old WILL POWER

We couldn't make it through the day

When we go to bed at night

Three of us hit the hay

Besides ourselves there's ARTHUR RITIS

and our good friend old BEN GAY

Our sinuses plug our noses up

So we can't sell the flowers

Those aches and pains are messin' up

Those good old days of ours

D.B. Cox

(Grandad wrote this poem for Senior Citizens. It can be sung to the tune of "Those Weddign Bells are Breaking Up That Old Gang of Mine.")

His head is only half full of knowledge

I was born in Nineteen-four

I’ve been alive since then

We all thought I’d get smart someday

But we weren’t sure just when

I grew up close to Keeline

One a real dry farm

Pulled a lot of childish tricks

But really meant no harm

I finally made it through grade school

Was not too good, but not too bad

When I finally graduated

It sure did make the teachers glad

Since I have now become much older

I can now begin to see

There’s lots of things that I don’t know

I’m not as smart as I should be

I thought that I was quite a wit

Thought I was really bright

But I found out a week ago

That I was just half right

D.B.

A Bit Of An Explanation

My grandfather, D.B. Cox, was the very best kind of Grandad...the kind that would get down on the floor and play with you; let you braid his ridiculously long comb-over and put barrettes in it; put a swing up in his basement so you could swing even when it was cold and snowy outside; build you a perfect small-person-scale kitchen cupboard, fill it with with awesome play dishes - including little pots and pans - and then have dinner with you in your little kitchen on your little dishes, even when the dinner was made of water and pork rinds.

He was also a very accomplished amateur photographer, cataloging the lives of his granddaughters (my sister and I) on a very regular basis, recording all his and Grammy's (the incomparable Marie Amend Cox) retirement trips (and there were plenty!), and photographing the beauty of the Cody (Wyoming) country he lived in and loved.

After Grammy died in 1976, Grandad had a few years of sadness, understandably. But as he came out of that sadness, he found his joy and his humor again. And he started writing poems and taking photos to illustrate them. All his poems were typed on an old manual typewriter (thus my choice of Courier font), and all his photos were taken with an old Polaroid.

My mother recently gave me all the poems he'd created. They are funny, poignant, joyous tidbits...a lot of them about family and a lot more about the perils of aging. They all make me smile and laugh, and I hope they will do the same for you.

And so begins this blog, a record of my grandfather's humorous poems...A Revoltin' Development.