The sixth of March - a day I once voted
A little arbitrarily the most
(Yawn) boring day of the year. The bloated
Corpse of the winter lingers, and its ghost
Will not depart; we hear its winds that boast
And cry defiance as we lie in bed,
Pulling covers up, keeping warm as toast;
Keeping our days busy until it’s fled.
What’s more, the door is open till the thread
Of smoke from five cigarettes has floated
Away into the night to join the host
Of ghostly cries and whispers as they head
Across the north west sky, often voted
Gloomy (but it’s not as bad as supposed).
Thur 6 Mar 2008
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