Tickle my belly, it shall be given.
The air was sweet as English toffee,
The best birthday a man could have,
Jim sipped a cup of steaming coffee,
It soothed his soul like a magic salve.
Comfortable in his skin, Jim drifted,
Loose, he settled into his day off work,
He smiled as a gentle breeze was gifted,
Suddenly Jim's ringtone went berserk.
Surprised, Jim nearly fell to the floor,
Answering, he heard heavy breathing,
Then came a pounding knock on his door,
By now Jim was crimson and seething.
"Who's there?" Jim yelled as he undid the lock,
What he found at the door was quite insane,
A tiny Buddha made in Bangkok,
On which was carved a curious refrain.
No one on the street did Jim spy,
He read aloud the words finely graven,
"Make a wish, then like the last butterfly,
Tickle my belly, it shall be given."
Jim brought the Buddha into his kitchen,
He figured the Buddha a birthday gift,
Jim tickled Buddha, wished for fried chicken,
Then came a familiar aroma adrift.
There on the table, in a lined basket,
Was fried chicken like his mother had made,
The Buddha gave Jim just what was asked it
Jim now knew he had it made in the shade.
Jim wished for a new car, speed boat, and truck,
Tickling Buddha for each thing desired,
Jim was consumed by his powerful luck,
A tickle was all Buddha required.
Stone mansions in the mountains up north,
Swimming pools, lady friends, Buddha would give,
Gold, silver, jewels the Buddha brought forth,
One day Jim wished forever he'd live.
Boom! Jim woke up back in his kitchen chair,
Thunderstorms and lightning swirled as if cursed,
Jim's wishes, like blowing bubbles in the air,
Drifted away until each one had burst.