April The Nineteenth – a Two-Minute Write
Oh, April, when will you be gone?
You seem to go on and on, and on;
Endless days, all in a row;
is your time not up,
should you not just go?
Or am I wishing my time away?
Will I be happy between the first
and thirty-first of May;
or will I be frittering those days away, and away?
April the Nineteenth;
but, a speck of sand in my beach of life –
or a tiny grain in my newt egg-timer, which seems a little more
apt for this kind of rhymer.