No matter what I do today, I find
Dissatisfaction lurking there behind,
Convincing me my throat’s too sore to sing
Or that I’ll be too tired for caroling,
That writing is a pointless exercise,
For my ambitions meager skills outsize,
When living feels too tiresome and rough,
The reason’s that I don’t work hard enough.
The only way I know to get through days
When darkness wants to drag me in its ways
Is to obtain the comforts that I crave
And to be bold enough to misbehave.
With skillful application of good beer,
Until twenty-fifteen I’ll persevere.