Written in 1996 as a gift to a girl who worked for the Journal Sentinel handing out papers. I liked her smile, but that was about it.

Black Jack

A present on your twenty-first
Has not to do with your thirst;
'Tis just a bit for you to read,
While not planting any seed.
Every morning I must awake
For almighty money's sake;
I see you handing papers out
Instead of talk, you seem to shout.
You yell things I do not hear
After having too much beer;
I smile and say something dumb
My senses still a little numb.
Or sometimes I'm still asleep
And must resemble some low-life creep;
Tired I look and see you smile,
Going always the extra mile.
When outdoors is cold as ice,
You remain warm and nice;
I'll miss the route not one day,
But miss a little your kind way.
Well, happy birthday, anyway.