I don't have much to write about tonight.
My day held nothing special nor unique.
I didn't fall in love or start a fight;
did nothing to provoke a Muse to speak.
A carbon copy of the day before,
and copies just grow duller, indistinct;
a dozen more, and yet a dozen more,
till Meaning is illegible--extinct.
So what if I go through life uninspired?
Who said existence ought to be enjoyed?
Such is preferred, of course, but not required;
recall you're fortunate to be employed.
One day you'll finally have enough put by
to quit, go on a cruise, relax...and die.