Poets, even famous ones, write nonsense like "I give you the sun." I guess it's their job (our job--okay I'm a poet, too) in a way to write crap like that.
Now I can't even give you these words unless you take them like a moist red pamphlet handed out by a blood-shot-eyed youth on dirty corner of an urbane street.
Poets can't help themselves so they try to help others by means of words, which people need less than cash, food, time, medicine, and rest.
So here it is: I give you your 8th birthday-celebration, when the wild turkey ran through the yard with that flapping red thing under its chin, when your uncle tried to tackle it, cracking his collar bone, and you received a crucial gift that you still keep in a drawer no matter where you move.
Yes, yes, this didn't happen to you, but now it did, or something like it did, and so I give that to you even though you already have it. Happy Birthday.
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