Birthday Poem
By Carbollocks
Hiram, wears a healer's habit
(though he is still too wedded to bloodletting)
The seventh child of the seventh son
greeted by the half-moon,
To a mother struggling and fretting,
Born on the witches' sabbath.
Poet? Nay, just a son of St. George
Making windmills out of dragons
Seeking truth in a desperate landscape
No mask or cape
Sought superpowers out of flagons,
traded them in for a verbal forge.
Would that we were more like he
The world would descend into anarchy!
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