Though the timing is rather uncanny,
Happy Birthday, I say, poet Danny.
On another year's crest
it may BE for the best
if you sat on that day on your fanny.
Turning old is a product of fate.
It's a mental/emotional state.
And just think of the kicks
when you're seventy six.
Your'e still growing at age forty-eight.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.I would like to translate this poem