When the hail didn’t come
she sat down on her bum,
had a dream about flying to Rome.
But the tank on his ultralight plane
held, if counted along with the main
fifteen cupfuls or less,
that would last, let me guess,
barely down to the township of Cane.
Not to worry, though. Home at the HUB
they can lounge in their bubble-filled tub.
Then, while sipping champagne
fly their own aeroplane.
And there’s always that Rub-A-Dub-Dub.
Happy birthday and thirty-eight more.
At that age, though you might be a bore.
Have a bottle or nine
while your liver’s still fine
so the fumes come through every pore.

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