Well, now, listen here, friends, 

Kindly  lend an ear, 

To a tale of winged beauties from ’round here. 

They’re not the robins of some dewy morn,

 Nor larks on the breeze, by soft breezes born. 

These are Electric Songbirds, their feathers all a-gleam, 

Singing a Sunday song, a curious dream.

The air in Santa Monica, it buzzes and hums, For tomorrow’s the day that our Suzy comes. 

That torch singer, bless her, a voice like a flame, Knowin’ all of her sorrows, and callin’ ’em by name.

 She sings from the soul, from the depths of her pain, And every sad note falls like a cleansing rain.

At the UnUrban Cafe, where the beatniks all gather, They’ll tip their old hats, in this artistic lather. The poets will whisper their words, sweet and slow, And the painters will sketch, in that soft, amber glow. 

The artists, you see, they’ve been waitin’ all week, For their chance to praise Suzy, in song, and in speak.

So the electric birds, with their circuits all bright, Will sing for Suzy Williams, with all of their might. 

A tribute of notes, both jazzy and grand, The finest birthday music in all of the land. They’ll chirp a new tune, a salute to her grace…For a Fabulous Superstar of that privileged place.