Happy Birthday Rolf

Every card that you’ve sent me,
Has mentioned one sad fact –
The advent of senility,
The youth that I have lacked.
And so it gives me special joy,
Although it’s somewhat naughty,
To cry out “Happy Birthday, boy,
I’m awful glad you’re FORTY!”

My joints are old, my ears sprout hairs,
My hair is grey and thinning,
It takes an age to climb the stairs –
The march of time is winning.
But though my body feels the pain,
My mind is still quite sporty,
So let’s repeat it once again,
I’m awful glad you’re FORTY!

I’ve put up billboards by the score,
And taken ads on telly,
I’ve printed special handouts for
The folks in Ballykelly.
So everyone in Ireland knows,
From Larne to Enniscorthy.
Watch those hairs shoot down your nose,
I’m awful glad you’re FORTY!

This rhyme is sounding pretty sad,
So let us make it cheerier,
You’ve always said that you are glad
You’re vertically superior.
But though I must look up to you
(For I’m a mere shortie)
Today our differences are few,
I’m awful glad you’re FORTY!

I cannot fight those four small years,
You’ll always win that battle.
And though my ageing mind despairs,
I still can shake my rattle.
I can’t conduct a full-fledged war,
Just mount an occasional sortie,
And this one’s quite successful for
I’m awful glad you’re FORTY!

Revenge, as clever people say,
Is best dished out quite coldly.
I hope you have a special day
That you can cherish. Oldly.
Shall I say it once again,
Or would that sound too haughty?
Ah, bugger, brother, feel the pain,
I’m awful glad you’re FORTY!