Frankly, my dear, I don't give a damn

Verily, old chap
Thy birthday hath come
A mere four hundred fifty
Art thou not young?

Though admittedly, my friend
I loathe all thy work
It would be inappropriate
To now be a jerk

Actually, old sport
Thou have long been dead
If I were to malign thee
What'd be there to regret?

Thy dramas are garbage
Thy comedies bad
A read of thy writings
Is hurting my head

Stop with the puns
And the poor innuendos
Whom doſt thou write for?
This child on thy windows?

But where are my manners?
This be thy day of honor
If admirers find out
I will be a goner

So long then, my fellow
Thou ſurely art miſsed
I ſend thee diſpleaſure
Sealed with a kiſs