Lo the years carry our mortal fabric to shores asunder, we find in one aspect we cannot blunder.

Should time steal which grace has granted, how remiss to be demurely handed.

When suddenly cuts the knife of fate, on this avoidance we'll ne'er be late.

For all seasons colored frost to rouge, we try to miss when we should not splooge.

Entreat ye then to times long held, in Winter's gaze and Summer's veil,

In Spring's delight and Fall's respite laze our thoughts where palms alight,

Upon the shaft of our boastful yearning, explodes a lust of passionate burning.

Say then of all tasks scorched to a day, like Water's gift 'tis one we delay.

As night accounts for our every to-do, there's always one still owed due. 

The simple task that we gladly avoid prohibits what could fill a flask, 

Or two, or ten, of a day's spent seed into the sock of bedtime's need. 

So now that we lay graciously relaxed so cums another day,

Beset with one ill-fated task.