Twenty-three years of Chester
And the world's had about enough
Rootin-tootin spasmodic sputum
Yes, it's been mighty rough
Quips and cranks and casks and tanks
Of vitamins and ale
Bags of moldering bagels
Inedible and stale
Confounding confusions and mass profusions
Unseemly solutions and fatal fusions
Hermetic seclusion and dank delusion
It's Chester, It's Chester; puke in a bag.
Chester, I love you,. Somebody called you my best friend this morning and I don't know whether that's the case or not, but I certainly feel free to yell at you like you are . I value your friendship for more reasons than are readily apparent at any one time: Obviously you impress me; you drive me to the very brink of insanity as well. Living in such close quarters has been revealing--I mean, you can be a calculatingly devious person at times. The moments when I am granted a glance into the interior machinery of it frightens me: You have abject cruelty and a sorrowful humanity riding apace in you. It's like you lift up a flap of skin over your rib cage and I see rusted gears, man fused with machine, hamsters running tirelessly on wheels, entire apparati set to undermine the tasks the others perform. You are most aloof, richest, poorest, stellar and grass roots person I know. If at times you think that I gloss over your depth of sentiment--the degree to which you think things out and mull them over- please be aware that I know your capacity and marvel at it. We often operate differently to arrive at similar results. Before I wax too maudlin and yawny, I'll stop, but not before saying this: Happy Birthday.
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