its four-thirty-a-m and i've thought up some thoughts,
with the inspiring aid of too many shots.
and on what should my facebooking-eye soon alight,
but the dismal reminder that tonight is tonight?

oh, it seems it's your birthday, even while you snore,
and rigidly, it's your birthday, even though i'm poor,
and it remains your birthday (though i wish it wer'n't),
as there's no worse day for a birthday than current.

your birthday falls on a least halcyon of days,
a day like all days and undeserving of praise.
the only thing that july ever did well
was birthing my darling (from the depths of hell).

[and making me a versified cheater/
by ******* around with my lyrical meter]

alack, alas, i'm poor as ****
so i'll hand you these stanzas and that is it,
borne of the gods and holy writ,
my gift to you: my sparkling wit.

[essentially, i just promised an empty box/
but whatevs. you can **** all my figurative---]