On an unusually cheerful note for the topic, from another great Scottish poet on Burns' night. 3 verses and this chorus... Ye never need yer nookie when ye're ninety Ye're rarely randy when ye're eighty-three While young men they take fits Chasin' legs and bums and tits Ye're really quite ecstatic wi' yer cup o' tea No ye never need yer nookie when ye're ninety And the freedom from the hassle it's like heaven For ye're no' obliged tae weemin when ye're no' producin' semen Aye yer life's yer own when you reach eighty-seven.... from the late lamented John Eaglesham of Glasgow (verses available on another thread)
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