All Right, Then, How About This?

I spent Saturday at a professional seminar, where I was able to patch up My Funny Valentine a bit, and on, my way to the office this morning, I finished it up. Here's how it now stands:

Our Boy is thirty-nine.
(He claims he's thirty-nine;
My cat just laughed till it cried.)

—Did some rich Darien
Octogenarian
Leave you her wrinkles when she died?

Have you gained a little weight?
Are you past your "sell-by" date?
And that wisp upon your pate—
Is it dyed?

Well, don't set the cat alight;
I'm just your satellite.
Why let your satellite dish?
We'll say you're thirty-nine . . . ish.

Lyric © 2007 Nathaniel DesH. Petrikov

Coining a phrase like don't sent the cat alight is the sort of sophomoric, pretentious, bone-lazy thing I'd have done twenty or thirty years ago. But until a better three-syllable rhyme comes along, one that will lead into a rhyme for ish, it will have to stand.