January 23, 2013

An ode for the ages. Or at least for the age 59.

Professor, All-Lost-Things Finder, and Dad Extraordinaire.

The was an old botanist who lived in a zoo
Of a dectet of children, but yet he well knew
His birthday would start and his birthday would end
And nothing but peanuts and candy they’d send.

A ramshackle rhyme most hastily writ?
A candle thrice used from a garage sale to lick?
Or stale candy corn? Or socks from a store
That were purchased on clearance the evening before?

He suffered in silence; he took it in stride,
He never let on how it hurt his dad pride.
A head of wise hairs for his fifty-nine years,
But here once again he’d be stifling tears.

His eldest did write some lame verses, it’s true,
But to send them by mail, she left one day too few.
‘Twas better to post them then have her dad wait
For a sad birthday card that’d be considerably late.

To top it all off, to throw salt in the wound,
There were nuts (again) coming, and not even soon.
For the kids did conspire, yes, how they did scheme,
But in a manner not timely did work these siblings.

Happy birthday, dear dad! We love you always!!
But the peanuts won’t come for roughly four business days.

(Sorry, dad. Maybe next year?)