Happy Birthday, Linda (R-Rated)

The threat of some hail kept her home, where she stood, in a trance, with her comb. When the hail didn't come she sat down on her bum, had a dream about flying to Rome. But the tank on his ultralight plane held, if counted along with the main fifteen cupfuls or less, that would last, let me guess, barely down to the township of Cane. Not to worry, though. Home at the HUB they can lounge in their bubble-filled tub. Then, while sipping champagne fly their own aeroplane. And there's always that Rub-A-Dub-Dub. Happy birthday and thirty-eight more. At that age, though you might be a bore. Have a bottle or nine while your liver's still fine so the fumes come through every pore.