Hey, Mr. Man, Mr. Man,
what about your birthday?
Was it fun? Was it not?
Was it like your very last?
Mr. Man knew no birthday.
For him, it was a normal day.
No surprises and wishes passed.
"Then, what was there?" You may ask.
On his day, tears were rain,
for he felt nothing but dismay,
that nothing good ever came
even on his special day.
Nothing special was his first
but his mom who let him thirst.
Annoyed she was of her son.
His first birthday, he cried a ton.
Every year was no different.
A void in him
would still be present.
There was something
always missing,
and that's the joy
in celebrating.
Now, he's sixteen
and still no candle lit.
No cake ever seen
on December twenty-fifth.
After every felt disgrace
he was but a man of ace.
All his birthdays were a smudge,
thus, in it he held a grudge.
