Happy Birthday, James Rex White!

Dark clouds rolled in,
the sound of thunder.
And with a cradle captive grin
a birth had happened in Down Under.

The product of a night of sex,
so long ago, who would remember
they named the boy Inspector Rex,
and then came Christmas in December.

He has been, on the odd occasion,
mistaken for old Santa Claus.
I think it's due to this Caucasian
approaching early menopause.

This year he must have riled the Gods,
they poured on him the biggest bucket
of excrement with lousy odds,
he answered them by mumbling 'F**k it'.

And, even though he gobbles praise
when it appears in modest measure
his head swells markedly these days,
he thinks himself a real treasure.

I say one needs to give a mention
of qualities a man possesses,
lest friends and folks pay no attention
to what the gentleman expresses.

Just look at him, forget the rumour;
his muscles, with their definition,
a mother earth and Kraut-type humour
we must admit, a prime edition.

He does not use the common weed,
no cigs will pass his hairy lips
foul language if there is a need
and certainly on foreign trips.

A bible is kept in the dunny
to lift his spirits during stress,
he serves his wife and calls her honey
and cleans the chookhouse, did you guess?

At six AM, you see him slaving
one hand stirs soup the other bakes,
just to fulfill his sweetheart's craving
she likes her bedside wake-up cakes.

And while he cooks and bakes and sings
to entertain and set the mood,
he tidies up and places things
then types a menu for the food.

Clamped tightly, like the soldier Custer
between the buttocks is a stick,
it's part of his large featherduster
he moves and sweeps, it does the trick.

At night, when darling watches telly
he scrubs all windows squeaky clean
and bathes mongrels (they were smelly)
in concentrated Mister Sheen.

You get my drift, here is a man
who's earned the rights to celebrate
a birthday cake with lots of bran
and buttermilk as stablemate.

The Gods, meanwhile have changed their minds
they've watched his altruistic deeds.
And as the timing clock unwinds
they've added on a bunch of beads.

How do we count the many ways
to get together in ten years,
we wish you many happy days
so, Happy Birthday, Jim. And Cheers!

by Herbert Nehrlich

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