Mourn in the greyish eye of dawn's void sense, Those blue skies ere that darkness swallowed hale Notes of sheer April. Yes. Ignore, t'avail My soul again by memry, though's pretense. Grab up the notebook, inking for intents That thought which last night rolled as if to scale Across my tongue, how "daylight savings'" bail Is long since quite forsworn without defense. Grey racks like Shakespeare knew oft could as twere Yield heavn's eye chance to slip unknown all through From East to West preside, and I demur To catch aught languid note's detail. Thus brew Morn's *** of Barry's tea, with toast in tour For taste. And write of yesterday like'd do.
11Mar19b
Guess again. Hint: Monday's are forever insanely busy.