Happy Birthday Sam Carelse

The snowbanks clear, the winter passes,
No more watching old men losing
Balance, falling, breaking arses,
Ending up with pelvic bruising.
The sixteenth of the first month brings
Sam to reach this milestone stage
Where soon they’ll have to count the rings
To fathom her colossal age.
For Sam today turns twenty-five,
A silver age, a jubilee,
A lengthy time to be alive,
A quarter of a century.
She’s hard to write a poem for –
About her I don’t know too much.
A Croydonite, she’s moved up North,
She likes a drink, her surname’s Dutch.
I ask for nought, yet she’ll insist
On telling tales she’d not be keen
On sharing here, but here’s the gist:
On torsos, lipstick’s hard to clean.
It should be great, her day of birth.
It really should, you know, or else
There’s just no justice on this Earth.
Happy birthday, Sam Carelse.

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