Birthday.

Birthday.

Thou art celebrated with pomp.
Every year thou apper in due time.
Thou art decked with flowers and gifts.
But I find thou art committing a crime.

Thou bring new hopes and aspirations
and bring greetings of kiths and kins.
Thou add one more candle
and delicious birthday cakes.

But thy approach is equivocal.
Thou gift them blissful days.
Then stealthily snach a year
and drag them to death beds.