Dear One, your day of birth I celebrate,
As you, a greater source of joy than most,
Compel me, though I'm disinclined, to boast,
And that the more as I reflect, of late.
My sense of prudence bids me moderate
What proves akin to some unbridled toast
That's prompted by some unassuming host
Whose predilection ne'er deferred to prate.
But nonetheless, though prudent, I confess
What falls, e'en in confessing, far too short,
And falling short, increases, so, my stress.
To praise you well would prove but bardic sport,
Or else the source of total happiness
That tempts an aging, tounge-tied man to court!