I wait to hear back on the work to do,
And, while I wait, I try to carry though
One idea or another to
Make some decent use of all the time
I must spend in waiting. Making rhyme
Is one such use, and it is no crime.
At least, it is not yet, but that may change
Given that the current day is strange
And the work of power to derange
Those who hold it. Those who seek it are
Likely of a sort who have not far
To go to become raving. What odd star
Shines upon their birth and on each day
They live to shape them to our long dismay?