a slow stroll down dry January
a tinge of regret masks merry
of the year past, and a deserved toast,
to dreams yet to come
a peculiar walk down dry January
an infinite number of day, all blurry
all queuing to be counted derelict
In one cold December morning
It's been tough, nothing much
despite deep and honest intentions
amounted from strenuous efforts
But, hey, isn't it December?
That's enough a reason to make merry
And reward oneself, once more
for three hundred and sixty five days
of bliss-filled, or lack thereof, existence
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