I have a friend named C.K. She’s a groovy sort of gal.

(Sure, I know that that’s offensive, but, come on, be a pal.)

And so to help her celebrate the day that she was born

I searched the world over for a perfect ponicorn.

Ponicorns are special—if you haven’t, you should try ‘em.

Everybody wants one, but you can’t really buy ‘em.

 You have to try to coax them. You find out where they wallow,

And if you’re truly pure at heart, a ponicorn will follow.

When you have a ponicorn, you’ve really got it made:

They shit tiramisu and they pee lemonade.

Their manes are made of candy floss, their breath is sweet as honey,

And when you feed them Alpha Bits, they vomit up money.

I trotted out my smoothest rap. The ponicorn just giggled.

I thought perhaps she’d follow, but she barely even wiggled.

I offer her a Hershey bar, a frog, and caramel.

She glared at me so prettily—said, “Whoa, there, Honeywell:

“Although I thank you kindly for the candy and the frog,

I can’t get past the fact that I’m familiar with your blog.

You’re thoroughly dislikable; and yet, what’s even worse,

Each sentence has a ‘shit’ or ‘fuck’ or other awful curse.”

“No, no,” I said shamefacedly. “I want you for my crony.”

The ponicorn just stared at me. I felt like such a phony.

I tried to phrase a kind request that didn't sound so craven.

I said, “Her name is C.K.” She said, "C.K. Dexter Haven?”

“If I could live with C.K, then my life would be complete.

She’s the nicest sort of person, though she surely isn’t sweet.

I’ll polish her tiara and I’ll soothe her when she’s frazzled.

And she’ll feed me lox and tangerines and keep my horn bedazzled.”

So Happy Birthday, C.K. I hope you like your present.

She’s in the sanctuary with the griffin and the pheasant.

She knows that sweet is not your thing. She sees into your heart.

And yes--she still pees lemonade. It's just a little tart.