A Song for my Favourite
Boo-Boo, you sweetie,
You never have tapped me,
Or even pulled hard on my leash on a walk.
You give me to eaty,
Sure, we run 'til you've sapped me,
But face it, you're really a sheep in my flock.
Today you're fifty and one!
You're life's not at middle,
In truth you're near done;
But you bike and you whittle
And to me the big riddle
Is how the fat guy gives you fun!
(Okay you don't "whittle",
It's better than "diddle"
When it comes to a rhyme.
As a poet, you know it,
I don't turn on a dime.)
Let's accept that he's sickly
And can be uber-prickly
And can't keep his dick in his zipper.
And you—you're a nice guy,
So cool you're an ice-guy,
While he's nearly Skeeter The Ripper.
Be this all as it may,
Today still is your day!
I raise a Jack's paw in solemn salute!
Put away all the work
And turn off the big jerk!
And try to ignore that now you're a Coot.
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