I feel a little down so I make a pot of tea.
My hamster Tweedledum is lost (or is it Tweedledee?).
The years have dimmed my memory and robbed me of my waist.
I look into the teapot and the world around me sways.
An all-familiar sight inside but how do I refer
To this untidy little thing with fluffy ears and fur?
The teapot shakes and softly snores. I really need a nap.
I feel eleven but my face is like an ancient map.
They tell me that I used to be a real queen of hearts.
I love my bows and pinafores (old habits dying hard).
In front of me are rows and rows of scrumptious fancy fare.
I contemplate my waist and stamp my foot – it’s so unfair.
I see a tag in shaky writing (mine?) on every cake
Requesting me to eat it but it sounds a bit risque.
Whoever labels every single thing? The world’s insane.
But I should not be judging: I suspect that I’m the same.
There’s so much more of me these days it really makes me mad.
I blame it on the many scrumptious fancy cakes I’ve had
At all the picnics in the woods by all the bubbling streams.
It must have been the sugar hit: I had the wildest dreams.
I’m still a fan of sugar but my life is very bland.
I miss my Tweedledee (or -dum?). I miss my Wonderland.
I know I rabbit on a bit. I've been so dull of late.
Old age is like a giant hole. I sigh and fill my plate.