To you today, does not really preclude
My taking on another silly thing:
A sonnet saying, "Happy birthday, dude."
A gross-out champ whose accent stuns me dead,
A daddy to the cutest child extant,
A storyteller whose shiny bald head
Doth blind us -- no, in fourteen lines I can't
Tell who you are, not adequately, so,
I'll simply hoist a margatweeta (or
An excreble concoction which we know
We'll never touch again). I shall wait for
Your children's book with interest; meanwhile
You keep that Sixth Gun coming, will you, chile?
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