H.B.P. The Twenty-Seventh Poem by Herbert Nehrlich

Some people play the numbers game,
become obsessed with threes and fives
and then consider it a shame
that others live numberless lives.

You leave the womb with one-two-three,
there is a number on your door.
Your feet are measured regularly
and human games all have a score.

Your car may go to two and twenty,
you defecate in only minutes,
your bank account contains a-plenty,
most things in life have certain limits.

So, right you are to look at figures,
at some o' them more than at others.
If you go south you don't say 'niggers'
they're boys and girls and mainly mothers.

The sixty billion supercells
your brain has wisely in reserve,
can handle sight and sound and smells,
they oversee each single nerve.

But, don't forget! There are nine numbers
and not just 2 and seven combined,
it's just as if you pick cucumbers:
You get confused, they're intertwined.

So, twenty seven is the past.
It brought success to you at times,
but also watched you have a blast
with little reason and no rhymes.

Another chapter has begun,
is ushered in by twenty eight,
predicting quality and fun,
we're positive, there's no debate.

And then, before you even know it
another number comes each year.
So, on your birthday you can throw it,
the old one, while you have a beer.

All six of us say Happy Days
and all the best for countless seasons!
And, as you travel through the haze
you see the light, you know the reasons.

The gods had mercy, they smiled on you,
they're planning now for little sprouts.
The question that we put to you:
Willl they be known as Aussiekrauts?

So, rest assured, wer'e NOT behind you,
as you've come back into our middle.
So take the place that was assigned you
and play NEW numbers on your fiddle.