There once was a man with a flu
Who ran in the night to the loo:
     He stubbed all his toes
     In consecutive rows
While filling his knickers with poo.

There one was a man named Malvolio,
A fictional man in a folio
     Who was played for a fool
     By some rascals at Yule
For acting like such an assholio.

Flying in falling
     Softly snow, five blue pigeons
And a white pigeon.  

Because another sips
     Her nectar, Death,
          Today
Please kiss these dusty lips,
     And take my breath
          Away.

Oh, weep for Adonais—he's undead!
    And hath been, lo! these interstitial years!
Yellow and black and pale and hectic red,
    His cockney mood consumptively careers.
Upon a bubbling Hippocrene he's drunk
    And dreaming, standing tiptoe on the brink
Of the wide world that sinks (Byron's a punk)
    As love and fame to nothingness do sink.
An anguished autumn wind doth howl a HOWL
    Of abject grief that sweeps the graveyard's stones.
The sickle moon observes the downy owl
    That eats a mouse from tail to skull and bones.
Zombie Allan Poe, who's green and obscene,
Is sobbing, "Happy Birthday Halloween!"

Frisbee flies
Like a UFO.

Blue skies.

A tic-tac-toe
Of them trails
Called chem trails.

Nanoaliens hatch.

A wonky throw—
He makes the catch!

!hap

pie
e.e.
***

(13
0th)

ming
s' b
irth

day!