This Is Not A Poem Title

                                                          This is.


                         A Meagre Gift Of Mediocre Words Adequately
                         Conveying Birthday Wishes To Antonio Salieri
                         On This His Two Hundred And Forty-Ninth
                         Birthday, The Eighteenth Of August In This Year
                         Of Nineteen Hundred And Ninety-Nine A.D.
      
                                           

    Scusi, Signor.
    I don't know where you are now,
    but I will not take up too much of your time.
    All I want to do on this grey, overcast,
    wet August day here in the New World
    is wish you the happiest...well, just
    a happy birthday, Signor Salieri.
    And if not a happy one, well...
    at least not a mediocre one (ha! ha!).
    I  must confess, sir,
    that not not long ago I was planning to compose
    a poem blasting you to eternal damnation
    because of what happened with...him.
   
   Yes, now I know the truth.
   
   Well, I will take my leave of you now,
    yet before I go I should say one thing more:

    For every eternal genius, no matter what they excel at,
    there are probably thousands, perhaps hundreds of thousands, oceans
    of mediocrities.

    These geniuses, I believe,
    are few and far between, especially today.

    We outnumber them all.

    Coraggio! You are not alone.

    Happy Birthday, Signor Salieri!

    Addio!


    Now go suck on Venus' nipples s'more, you ol' pastry-munching bastard!



    DB/8.18.1999,2014