For those of us that are condemned to sit
by Ivan Pine
And stare unwavering on a distant land,
Here lets pause and reflect a bit
And confront the hourglass’s loss of sand.
The eyes are sore from a glare caused squint
Matching furrows across the brow,
And navel gazing reveals just lint
An accumulation you wonder how.
As you twist and turn in the chair
A tuneful wind is your friend,
That howls and rushes and tears you hair
To blow you further round the bend.