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My aged Granny Malaprop,
Her memory's far from fine.
She says she's a centurion
(She's only ninety-nine).

That's more than sister Millie was
Who died at eighty-seven.
So Mill was just an octagon
When carried up to heaven.

While Granny’s quite a fit old thing,
For tennis still a starter,
She doesn't see too well these days.
She says it's her stigmata.

She hasn’t ceased to buy antiques
And curiosities
Like rare Egyptian amulets
From early dysentries.

We take her to the concert hall,
She seldom wants to go.
She doesn't like those folk up front
Gestating to and fro.

Next month she'll hit her hundred years‒
I'm sure she'll make a speech.
She'll say that it's a millstone, this
Outrageous age to reach.

Before too long we'll bury Gran
Beneath the sage and sorrel
Yet even though death comes to all
She claims that she's immoral.

Aloft, she will forever be
As in her earthly days
Our polygon of virtue, with
A smashing turn of phrase.