Saturday, April 11, 2009

Leap Year Sonnet

Counting the twenty-ninth of February
As something special, when you're sixty-four
You're only sixteen birthdays old. What's more,
If groups of singing waiters making merry
Is less appealing, if somewhat more hairy,
Than dancing cats, you've saved over two score
Unpleasant meals, so pop the cork and pour,
And offer a fresh toast to the Blue Fairy.

Counting the day instead as something weird,
An oddment of the calendar, a day
Out of the normal run of things, you say,
"If I had birds' nests filling up my beard --
An outcome of hirsuteness all have feared --
I'd hate it less than this." And that's okay.

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