The steam is wafting from my mug of tea.
My laptop’s screen glows brightly in the gloom.
Outside, the cold yet fails to slow the sea,
As the rain clouds o’er the city loom.
The promise of the new year still remains,
With its resolutions and well-thought schemes.
I jog, perspire, losses exceeding gains.
The French books are lonely; they haunt my dreams.
Yet the albatross, ‘round my neck he’s strung,
Waits for confirmation from a far off land.
The extensive wait is a load of dung,
And the blasted bird keeps biting my hand.
Until I know, I shan’t be a leader.
At least bring me my frickin’ ereader.
I’m gunning for you, Shakespeare. Chapter coming tomorrow, finally.
Shakespeare will find this hard to beat. Especially considering that he's dead. You do have an unfair advantage.
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