A Birthday and a Bad Poem

There is a young dad
Who didn't get mad,
But went away to India
While he was away
He had a birthday
And I ain't even kiddin' ya.

He turned thirty-six(?)
And had no one to fix
Him a birthday cake with candles
He cried all day long
And sang his own song
As tears dropped onto his sandals.

Before I slaughter any more poetry,
(or get any more depressing)
maybe I should stop here and just say:

Happy Birthday Casey!!!

Here is a list of things I love about Casey:
(Shared not only to express love, but to embarrass the socks off him--he shouldn't be wearing socks with sandals anyway).

That he's so in love with Edith Penelope
That he's such a devoted dad
That he helps his pitiful extended family with taxes and computer problems
That he faithfully serves in the scouting program for years and years even though he hates nature, camping, and socializing
That he can play computer games and participate in family functions at the same time
That he pretends not to be competitive
That he faithfully reads people's blogs (and just as faithfully refuses to comment)
That he answers the phone on the first ring, even though he has phone-aphobia
That he eats bagels as a part of his healthy diet
That he's such a good uncle to my kids
That he loves basketball, even when it rips his lips
That he's so talented, kind, and willing to help.