From the time you are one
’Til you’re twenty it’s fun
When you birthdays come rolling around.
There are presents and cake,
And it swells to partake
In that fete where you’re annually crowned.
But the process of growth
Makes you apt to be loath
After while to acknowledge the date;
When the candles commence
To appear like a fence
And to light them might burn your estate.
Still it give friends a chance
That no other day grants
To speak praise of the years you have worn
And to honestly say
It’s no verbal bouquet
That we’re happy, indeed, you were born.
Where Else?