It's been an odd birthday. Dan meant to come home early so I could get to a session with the first of the tutoring students I've reintroduced into my schedule, but debugging got the better of him. He arrived barely in time for me to hand off the baby and rush out the door. "He's been fed," I said, "but the cat threw up on the wedding quilt, and the toilet's clogged. Have fun!"
"My karmic comeuppance," Dan acknowledged. "Sorry about being late." And he kissed me goodbye.
Now here's where I praise my fabulous husband: I came home to find the plumbing repaired, the wedding quilt rescued, the baby content, dinner cooked, and a chocolate spoon cake on the stove. The only thing we're missing is bad poetry.
Well, now it's time for me to rectify that with my annual recitation of the bad poem that started it all:
Ode on the Mammoth Cheese, Weighing over 7,000 Pounds
By James McIntyre (1827-1906)
We have seen thee, Queen of Cheese,
Lying quietly at your ease,
Gently fanned by evening breeze,
Thy fair form no flies dare seize.
All gaily dressed soon you'll go
To the great Provincial Show,
To be admired by many a beau
In the city of Toronto.
Cows numerous as a swarm of bees --
Or as the leaves upon the trees --
It did require to make thee please,
And stand unrivalled Queen of Cheese.
May you not receive a scar as
We have heard that Mr. Harris
Intends to send you off as far as
The great World's Show at Paris.
Of the youth -- beware of these --
For some of them might rudely squeeze
And bite your cheek; then songs or glees
We could not sing, O Queen of Cheese.
We'rt thou suspended from balloon,
You'd cast a shade even at noon,
Folks would think it was the moon
About to fall and crush them soon.