When so much happens in a single day
That fourteen lines cannot contain it all,
I must cut ruthlessly joy and dismay
That seems on recollection more banal

Than simple pleasures, grumpy anecdotes,
From which my pithy aphorisms spring;
Fun to extemporaneously quote,
Thus needful, therefore to those words I cling.

But my desire to tell things as they are,
Then wars with my desire to elevate
The daily grind, and so I raise the bar,
And then repine ambition far too late,

And such pretension truly is a yawn,-it’s
Not like we really need sonnets on sonnets.