You’re not
the brightest bulb
     in the box,
     on the porch,
     in the chandelier.
the sharpest
     razor in the pack,
     tool in the shed,
     cheese on the cracker,
the ripest fruit on the vine,
the fastest gun in the west.
You’re a few
    bricks shy of a load,
    sandwiches short of a picnic,
    screws short of a hardware store,
    dimes short of a dollar,
    fries short of a Happy Meal.
Your elevator doesn't go all the way to the top floor;
all your puppies don't bark; the gates are down
and the lights are flashing, but the train isn't coming.
Although you couldn't pour water out of a boot
with instructions on the heel, you’re kind, honest, happy,
and I’m glad you’re my friend.

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