He's The Poet.....
 

...and he didn't even know it.

Have a great Birthday, Thomas. :hb

Re: He's The Poet.....
 

The world is made of sand and sea
Like the grains along a beach.
The waters wash each grain away
When the tides of time shall leach.

So do not fret you left no mark
When upon those grains of sand.
For no one really changes them
As they lie upon the land.

The only thing that may be said
Of your time, or you, or me;
Is that we watched each tide come in
And we did so happily.

Happy Birthday, my friend. :tu

Re: He's The Poet.....
 

Leaves of green plucked from the ground
Fermented and aged until they are brown
Processed and rolled until they are round
All to turn your frown upside down

Happy Birthday!

Re: He's The Poet.....
 

Happy Birthday :wo

Re: He's The Poet.....
 

:hb

Re: He's The Poet.....
 

Happy Birthday!

Violets are blue and Roses are red.
It's Thomas' birthday, which means he's not dead!

Re: He's The Poet.....
 

Roses are red
Violets are blue
Happy Birthday dear Poet
Happy Birthday to You!

Re: He's The Poet.....
 

One could do worse than be a swinger of birches.

Happy birthday, Thomas. :tu

Re: He's The Poet.....
 

:hb Happy B-Day Thomas!! :hb Enjoy your day brother. :D

Re: He's The Poet.....
 

So it's your birthday.
That reminds me of a joke
about old people.

Happy Birthday!

Re: He's The Poet.....
 

Happy Birthday, friend!
May today's coffee be strong
and cigar inspired.

And maybe a little Dylan Thomas:

Do Not Go Gentle Into That Good Night

Do not go gentle into that good night,
Old age should burn and rave at close of day;
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

Though wise men at their end know dark is right,
Because their words had forked no lightning they
Do not go gentle into that good night.

Good men, the last wave by, crying how bright
Their frail deeds might have danced in a green bay,
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

Wild men who caught and sang the sun in flight,
And learn, too late, they grieve it on its way,
Do not go gentle into that good night.

Grave men, near death, who see with blinding sight
Blind eyes could blaze like meteors and be gay,
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

And you, my father, there on the sad height,
Curse, bless, me now with your fierce tears, I pray.
Do not go gentle into that good night.
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

Re: He's The Poet.....
 

Thanks guys, and thanks for letting me play in your sandbox. I would reply in verse, but don't feel like working today.

Hell, honestly, I don't feel like working any day, thus my attraction to this sandbox.

Re: He's The Poet.....
 

Happy Birthday, Thomas!