Happy Birthday, Michael Sh. Poem by Herbert Nehrlich

On the day of your birth
all the Gods were agreed
that to send you to earth
as a miniature seed
would be folly to some
and poetic to those
who expected a bum
and were stunned by a rose.

Solid substance abounds
though the numbers are few
if you run with the hounds
you are part of the crew.
You have chosen, my friend
the old potholed chaussée
which will mean, in the end
for your soul, liberté.

Happy Birthday I shout,
many happy returns
from a silly old Kraut
with an armful of ferns.