Eighty years have gone since when
my mother fussed like a brooding hen
my father, who rather liked my style,
said I’d grow up
in a short pants while.
And I would rage, rage, upon the page,
against the years that span my age
against the cake of candle light,
against the dying of the night.
so, happy birthday to me
happy birthday to me
happy birthday, Bobbie Thomas,
happy birthday
to me.
