Dear Scott Fitzgerald
You were the herald
Of the Age of Jazz
And of that generation
Of elegant syncopation
And that freedom that true jazz has

You were from St. Paul
Which you didn't like at all
You had to go away to feel alive
You blazed and then you cracked
You had no second act
But we remember when you were 25

Summer 1919
You were in between
Failure and great success
You reached for the prize
This side of Paradise
And the love of your life said yes

You were destiny's child
With a beautiful style
They couldn't get enough of you
For about ten years
And then your career
Simply vanished from view

But straight to the end
Of your awful descent
To that bungalow in L.A.
Through the sickness and blues
You were true to your muse
And aspired to greatness every day

At age 44
You went through the door
Leaving a few books behind
That people still read
That somehow succeed
In tiptoeing into the mind

Some paragraphs flash
And thunder and crash
And shine on the page red-hot
You had troubles, God knows,
But that beautiful prose
Happy birthday to you, dear Scott