My smile is only a thing of intense Moe,
which, by the way, embraces Happiness,
but happiness leaves it to be a thing of Moe,
which is intense, and this so intense, Moe,
that liquor in one mug can sit on you.
I would make a cake for you, but it is a phobia.
Eventually I will bake; I bought liquor for you instead;
and thus do you chillax in your apartment and
go cruising; Happy Birthday! However I chase it, and,
despite the suction of my poetry, who gives a fuck?