It's your birthday, happy birthday to you br It's your birthday, good luck to you br No wonder i'm confused br There is too much to remember br Too little space to put everything br I have to offload some of this baggage br No wonder people resent me br Twenty one thousand eight hundred and forty days br Someone had to feed me br Someone had to talk to me br Someone had to love me br Someone had to hate me br I haven't become more attractive br Though i have to wash more br But my hair is easier to comb br Old dogs come across the street br For one last smell br And i have a affinity with them br Other human beings look at you br And wonder why your still here br When i blow children a kiss br They run the other way br The days are becoming shorter br But they are filled with more br I used to be a angry young man br Now i'm a cranky old bastard br But i will mellow br As my skin turns yellow br br Written on the eighteenth september 2005br br Allan James Saywellbr br