Bill wants his birthday bash sans frill--
Just slap some road kill on the grill,
And chill some krill with baby dill,
And wash the whole thing down with swill.
He'll eat his fill until he's ill
When, hanging out the window sill
He'll spill his krill, all green of gill,
Ill-tempered, bilious and shrill.
Yet well or ill, it's still a thrill
For Bill to run the birthday drill.
His expectations may be nil.
The cake may taste like chlorophyll.
His body, heading straight downhill,
May feel like it's been through the mill,
Or pricked by sharp and pointy quill
Of voodoo doll in far Brazil.
He doesn't mind--there's no ill will.
He takes an Advil kind of pill,
Just grateful that he's breathing still
'Cause that's the most important skill.
So pick yourself a daffodil,
Go watch some Cecil B. DeMille,
And eat your fill of cake and krill--
Happy bilious birthday, Bill
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