On this the day of your birth,
I wrote you a poem, one that is worth
the world and then some,
because it comes from
the greatest brother alive,
one that would dive
in front of a bullet to save his sister
one that would make today a disaster
by not getting her a present
because I couldn’t afford a pheasant
or was it a quail I was looking for
the one Mr. Cheney eventually wore
on his back, like a cape
to show quails there was no excape
but, on a lighter note, I know why I’m here
it’s time to celebrate that special time of year
when you were born and later found
taken home, and fond of sound
you later made in your room
the noise you hear from a flute out of tune
but, now you’re here with friends a plenty
to celebrate this, your birthday of twenty
Dedicated to Peachi
