The lintel of my door declares
Timor mortis conturbat me,
But only for display. Inside,
The folks are busy brewing tea
And snacking on what Christmas left
Behind—dry turkey sandwiches
And lebkuchen. Eggnog is not
A morning-after sort of thing.
Today's the day we roll our eyes
And smirk, superior, then betray,
And throw the calendar away.
No comments:
Post a Comment