Monday, September 27, 2004

2.19



Says Iphigenia:

Each year I greet as though my lover arrived,
Well-favoured and debonair, I feel,
And he's got swoonsome written all over him,
Champagne and roses and warmth in the cold,
I welcome him as the year that will sweep me from my
     feet.

But as each year in succession predeceases,
Badly let down, betrayed, I must shuffle to the next.