This day good and evil have met,
It's a day we cannot forget.
A day of filth and turned up pots,
Of thrown out beans and apricots.

Eighty two years from my cracked shell, --
Eighty two years of war and hell.
Clipped by the, doctor, born and tagged,
Doused and swaddled, salted and bagged.

Bludgeoned, tormented, robbed and jeered,
Often alone and ghastly feared.
Angels behold it and see and cry,
Wondering whether I'd live or die.

All, were happy but me, not I,
Was not this, the fourth of July,
Who, would like the gunpowder smell,
Who, Where, am I, I cannot tell,

The demon struts with branding iron,
Red hot tail and screaming siren.
Not, worth much.  He is just a cull,
That mumbled a boy numbskull,

July, 4th, 1895,
God looks down.  I am still, alive.
Was, I glad, it was a relief,
I, just, cried and shook like a leaf.

The nurse proclaimed I'm, He, no, She.
Yep, God was merciful to me.
She pinched my leg, and checked my brain,
And said, I think he'll be a Crane.

Something sifted out of thin air,
And Gabriel Alfonso was there.
Your Angel's on-duty he said,
He checked me and upward he fled.

In heaven he turned this report,
He's born and I'll give him support.
So, eighty second birthday,
Thanx, dear Angel hooray!.

H. E. Crane