Yeah, I’m guilty as self-charged today. My weird idea of a psuedo-poem follows below.
(Note: this goofiness is done in appreciation to the hours spent with Mssr. Jon Bon Jovi and due to my life as a dedicated bureaucrat!)
I drive all night to get to that gold
And I feel so wanted
dead or alive.
My executive correspondence
could ring a chord
like a guitar lick.
But no matter what Congress
does, doesn’t, should, could or would,
we trudge toward our deadlines.
“Be stiff of upper lip,
scowl your discontent
and rearrange those pretty chairs!,”
my mates in the
Dance Band of the Titanic.