I wanted to write you a birthday poem, but all that came out were bubbles.
Imagine that; a paper with fading lines underneath a soaking sud.
The small round imprint teeters on its hump, pretending it's a letter trying to nestle between two lines.
This is not the case friend, bubble. Your girth is grand and the liquid sliding down your gentle skin is much too heavy.
You're out of place. Still...your day is now.
Birth more bubbles out of yourself... sneeze and a few more can drop to the side.
Wiggle and watch them grow independent.
Blow the suds around to form more complex shapes, add some music for tempo.
Suds like to dance around...singing "Happy Birthday, Sis!"!