It has always been a noted thing
That poets are quite mad
And often wildly happy
And often bleakly sad.
They feel things more than most you see
Starving hunger and parched thirst,
Tormented by their worm filled minds
Giddy bests and plunging worsts.
It helps me with my job I guess,
I find it natural not hard,
Oh happy birthday Auntie.
This is weird in a card.