Yesterday was your birthday,
(or was it two days ago, or three?),
but I didn't call or send a card,
and I guess that was pretty mean.

My mother says you're brilliant,
and your mother rants and raves,
about the things that you have written,
or the things that you have said.

You're maybe three years younger,
but you've already taken centre stage,
and we're all green with envy,
or maybe you're just annoying.

I'm just a jealous cousin,
because I wish that I could write plays,
and I wish I was a thirteen-year-old genius,
and I wish I had braces.

So yesterday was your birthday,
and I suppose you turned fourteen,
one more year of glory,
while the rest of us stay the same.