In the last dying moments of what has been the momentous eventide of Max Crowe's 'teens and the oh so very bright dawning of what may very well prove to have been his twenties when viewed in retrospect by generations of anthropological historians as yet unborn, we turn as always slightly away as we fart to acknowledge and honour those who gave their lives that Max could so effectively fulfil his potential and pretend that someone else did it and in the background at first gently softly and then swelling and tumescent like unto the winning entrant in a very large vegetable competition at the village fete huddling in the gazebo from the chilling summer rains comes the chorus "Happy Birthday Max, Happy Birthday to YOU!".
In the last dying moments of what has been the momentous eventide of Max Crowe's 'teens and the oh so very bright dawning of what may very well prove to have been his twenties when viewed in retrospect by generations of anthropological historians as yet unborn, we turn as always slightly away as we fart to acknowledge and honour those who gave their lives that Max could so effectively fulfil his potential and pretend that someone else did it and in the background at first gently softly and then swelling and tumescent like unto the winning entrant in a very large vegetable competition at the village fete huddling in the gazebo from the chilling summer rains comes the chorus "Happy Birthday Max, Happy Birthday to YOU!".