Written 23 April 1970
for the birthday of my great friend, now Dr. Hewitt Lang. Clearly another satire. 
I was beginning to find my specialty. Huey has long had his revenge making fun of me.

Here I sit in the middle of my chair
Writing a poem of very warm air
I'll try not to copy aught else that I've seen
Not a line from any poem that's ever been
For to thine own self be true
In poems means only write what's new
And now I'll to the theme make haste
For you'll want not where you do not waste
So here is where I'll make a start
To sing your praise in poetic art

Never have I ever found
A man your equal pound for pound
Oh, Hewitt Lang my very best friend
You're more than the beginning, middle and end
In conquering women you have no match
You're completely unchallenged with the snatch
An athlete you are of Olympic scale
And your deeply tanned body makes the Kingfish look pale
Had you come before Einstein the latter you'd teach
There's no one I've seen with your great mental reach
You're a match for all the gods on high
So you've clearly passed all humanity by
And if you think I exaggerate
This poem makes you sound but second rate
So I've but one more thing to say
I hope you have a great birthday.