We had a monitor or two

Now my birthday comes again
Send me paper and a pen
I think a villanelle is good
When the trees burst into bud
Though its form is never fluid
Love alone will never do it
But grief is what will damp my eyes
Tears and ink produce new lines.
I love to feel the pen in hand
My old friends will understand
The ink once made from powder dry
Mixed with water for supply
We had a monitor it’s true
But like a prefect tasks to do
The old brass jug stands full and proud
Now then children, two’s a crowd