Someone on X had written geezers of slime instead of geysers.
Even such is slime, it forms a crust
About our youth, our joys, our all we have,
Because it’s damp and clings, attracting dust
Hardening as we head towards the grave,
With growing age it forms a carapace,
Protecting our self worth from our disgrace,
Until, at last, at death it seems we must
Jet wash our souls or die in self disgust.
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