Must I let my lost weekend,
if I shall from Lennon borrow,
on life's stretched canvas bleaken,
a sense of sweet tomorrow?
Now amidst my winter days,
that are neither possess'd
by rhyme nor season,
I lie troubled by treason
O! if speak I must of one lass,
sink in it must the fact,
that all things must pass,
even letdown's painful protract.
Relax! It happens!
smell the coffee, turn to work,
for comfort and delightful distraction,
pain is pain's panacea!
Among facts forgotten,
when life leaves it's rag threadbare,
is that it in the nature of good times,
to appear further away than they actually are