Good husbands all know
That a man sure had better
When it comes to a wife’s birthday
Not be a forgetter.
As Shakespeare declared
There’s no place in this world
Or even the next
Where such fury is hurled
As that which is flung
By a woman who’s scorned
By a guy not recognizing
The day his gal was born
I’ve been in that place
Once (well, more that) I forgot
And I quickly began
To regret it a lot
So I wrote me a note
On a bright yellow square
To make sure that this year
I’d remain well aware
Of the day that it was
And of the day coming near
When it was time to tell her
“Happy Birthday, my dear”
But alas, how it goes
When a man tries his best
But winds up not doing
Something she will bless
This year, she decided
To do what I’d done before:
To look at the calendar
And simply ignore
The date of her birth
And pretend that this year
It just wasn’t worth
Any kind of great cheer
You see, it is fine
If a year ends in “nine”
Because women that age
Don’t seem to mind
But when the 9 turns to zero
Something seems to snap
Like a stretched rubber band
Or a sharp metal trap.
She’s just a day older
(Although I sure can’t tell)
But to add a new zero
Gals don’t take that so well
“Just forget, it she said,”
(Like I too often do)
“And wait for a year
That ends in 1, or a 2”
A decade has passed
Since her age ended in ‘O”
And now, 10 years later,
It seems more like “woe”
It can be iffy;
Woes can quickly appear
In less than a jiffy
If the half-century word she hears
So what shall I do
Tell me, what do I say
To a gal who forgets
Her very own day?
Do I just try to pretend
That I really forgot
And failed to remember
That trouble that brought?
Or do I get roses
Of bright, fiery red
To remind her that her age
Is still a long way from dead?
I can’t say that I know
Which option to choose
But with my klutzy bad luck
I would probably lose
So guys, tell me if
There is a solution
To this 10-year cycle
Of birthday pollution
Is there a way to safely
Say ‘Happy Birthday’
To a gal who is thinking
Of only her age?
Or should I just get on a boat
And sail into the sun
And come back in a year,
When her age ends in “1”?
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And Dean, that\'s a lovely poem.