by Chris "Childe Harold" Oakley
When Mother Earth her winter clothes does shed,
And saucy Spring does drag her to his bed;
When proud Orion with his starry belt
In shady blue at early eve does melt;
When hoary Frost forsakes the country bare
And softer Dew attends the matin air,
When drowsy squirrel in a hollow kept
Does wonder if he might have overslept;
When flower fairies in their bulbs do doze
And thorny branch is all that spells a rose,
The woodland sprites are nonetheless all gay
Because it is Lord Steven's natal day!
In chilly dell the spirits link their hands
And to the music of an unseen band
They foxtrot to the crazy minstrelsy
Of Stevey's sixth atonal symphony!
But birthday boy, sequestered in his cell
Is silent, save at times an anguished yell —
A screeching, wailing, gnashing howl of pain
That tells the world the program's crashed again!
But let us all, with lightsome hearts, be gay
And celebrate with joy this special day.
With goblets high and all our verve and vim,
We cry, "May many more be due to him!"