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Tuesday, November 30, 2004


   Paper Can Wait . . .
I come back home and this I find,
an aching head and pounding mind!
My little bedroom stuffed it be,
As is the nose attached to me,
And don't forget the throat that's sore,
It wills to scratch me more and more,
Egad! This sucks! I was so set,
to all upon my essay get,
And yet, it seems, that will not work,
Since blasted body's blasted jerk!
Suck back the snot and feel it coarse,
While trachea remains all hoarse,
And head continues being pained,
and wants to topple, marked and stained,
and at this point I really don't
care much 'bout rhyming really good,
I'm sick and all, and still, and yet,
the work stabs like a bayonet!
It's good that Johnson's lax with dates,
And cares not if we hand in lates,
(Yeah, that's right, I cheat the rhyme,
it's hard to think too hard this time,)
I hope you're well and fit and sane,
Tonight, the essays be my bane,
So screw tonight, I'm goin' to bed,
I'll see ya tomorrow, I hope, instead . . .

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