The sales caught me off guard with early cries of St. Patrick's Day, kick me.
(sonnet #MMMMMMMDCCLXXIV)
Lo, sparrows gaily chatter as I thence
Pass by the entry, and whiles rain t'avail
Is like some fragile yet persistent, hale
Sweet kiss that drives ole Winter's Death from hence
And rouses buds to pierce 'gain through those dense
Leaf mats knit months before and spread to scale
Across the sleeping flowrs last April'd hail
The world with once upon a time, ah whence?
I yearn to wander oer these wastes in tour,
If that I might now listen to the dew,
Hear all the little scurrying which'd bestir
As yellowed grasses shift to what? anew.
It is the Ides of March, the knife as twere
'Non twisting in dear Caesar's back from who?
15Mar19a
NOTE: We remember March's ides thanks to that supposed soothsayer warning Caesar, but every month has ides, some on the 15th and others on their 13th, last I saw.
Ah, what a way to begin Friday, eh?
