Ode to a Young Old Man on His Birthday

old, old poem haha

On the second of September at an early afternoon hour,
Lay a young lady in an enclosing with a great many flower.

She possessed neither splendid beauty nor grace,
But a distracted daze on her puzzled face. Her pen could not bring forth the words they'd escaped her mind, like wavering birds.

She feared her talent, once called great, Had shrewdly commenced
to dissipate. For she knew of this poem's dreadful fate,
If rhymes she did not gesticulate.

How precariously and clumsily indeed
Are these words arranged, I should thou heed!
Of this, thy poem, I write on this date,
In honor of a gentleman I dare call great!

Though pictures of you I have not seen,
I shall imagine you with a gleam.
So pleasant is the smile that lights up your face,
You radiate the best of our silly, beastly race!

I wish you the best, on this steamy summer's day,
Whose skies are now darkening to an ominous gray.
You might not take pleasure in a Bordeaux and cake,
But smile and enjoy this day, for my sake!