Prolly NOT.
(sonnet #whoknows)
November was a wash; now April's tale
Is likewise, since, how can I write fr'intents
On nary sleep? or knowing aught's pretense
Now that Josiah's gone? Rain falls, th'all hail
Sweet in this chill, green all 'round like t'avail
The soul, the chick-dee's call mine in a sense,
From years long buried, when at home they'd fence
My way with cherished notes; sometimes sheer bail.
The world is switching to erm, devils fer
Aught bus'ness, hardly masquing that from view,
And paper's trail is crumpled, obs'lete, poor
As use, especially since the people do
NOT like it. So, I'll half kowtow as twere,
Thy mercies, LORD, e'er new. We wait for You.
01May26a
May 10
May 10, 2026 at 1:57 PM UTC
Prolly NOT.
(sonnet #whoknows)
November was a wash; now April's tale
Is likewise, since, how can I write fr'intents
On nary sleep? or knowing aught's pretense
Now that Josiah's gone? Rain falls, th'all hail
Sweet in this chill, green all 'round like t'avail
The soul, the chick-dee's call mine in a sense,
From years long buried, when at home they'd fence
My way with cherished notes; sometimes sheer bail.
The world is switching to erm, devils fer
Aught bus'ness, hardly masquing that from view,
And paper's trail is crumpled, obs'lete, poor
As use, especially since the people do
NOT like it. So, I'll half kowtow as twere,
Thy mercies, LORD, e'er new. We wait for You.
01May26a
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