Another public display of commemorative prose, folks. What with this plus the animals trying to escape from the zoo, you'd think the end is nigh, a big earthquake is on its way, or Aunt Flo has come for an extended visit.

While mincing down Third Street to AT&T Park to catch some tasty waves, we came across the most darling bouquet of fresh flowers, above, lying on the sidewalk. While trying to steal them, we noticed a piece of paper wrapping the posies, a poem dedicated to the life and work of cherished writer, rumored plagiarist, and Oakland Square namesake, Jack London. Because today, Jan 12, you see, would have been his 132 birthday.

A bit of background: Born in a house on Third Street and Brannan, which was destroyed in the earthquake of 1906, the building that stands there now has a plaque in his honor, hence the flowers. Although London was born here in the city, he was raised in Oakland primarily by an ex-slave, Virginia Prentiss, after his biological mother was too sick to care for him. Then, London went on to write numerous stores about dogs dying in the wild, tales that would cause children in elementary schools across the world to excuse themselves from reading time in order to weep uncontrollably in the boys bathroom stall. Or so we hear.

Flash forward to today, you might find a poem penned in his honor such as the one we found this morning. While it's no "Ode to Tatiana the Tiger" - because, really, what is? - feel free to judge it yourself after the jump.

JACK LONDON

He never once forgot that he
began his life in poverty
and a black mother fed him life
when he was dying.
Grown, he wrote her notes of love;
he knew how she has listened to,
rocked him, and comforted
his infant-crying.

Though he grew wealthier than all
other writers, he'd recall
people abandoned on the streets' abyss
and wrote their plea
to win for them politically
a better life, and never gave up trying
'till his dying

Earth's beauty, bounty, gave him goal
to feed all with a generous soul
as one who took him to her breast to cherish.
He'd nourish creatures, plants, and men
with land he would reclaim again.
Beyond mere fame he sent his vision flying.

A man more meteor than dust
"to help others because we must"
became his creed, he found joy in the trying,
he never once forgot that he
began his life in poverty.
His torch and flame burn with undying ember.

Jack London was his name, and we remember.

And..there you go.

Happy birthday, Jack. We'll go to Dolores Park to pet some dogs in your honor. Or not laugh at dog walkers carrying baggies full of poop. But we make no promises. Arf.