My brain is fried,
Feels like it died;
All cogent thoughts have fled.

I cannot write,
My efforts bite;
My mind has gone to bed.

I thought perhaps
A little nap
Would surely do the trick,

But woe is me,
’Twas not to be;
My candle’s lost its wick.

The news is bleak,
Another week
Of Putin, Xi and Trump.

I’ve had enough
Of all their stuff …
Been sitting like a lump.

And so I think
I’ll have a drink
Of something alcoholic,

And watch a flick.
No, nothing sick …
Perhaps, instead, bucolic.

I’ll lose myself
In something else
Besides the daily news.

I hope, my dear,
You’ll see it clear
My absence to excuse.

And by the morn,
I’ll be reborn,
No longer in a fog,

Once more opining,
And sometimes whining,
To bring you this, my blog.

*. *. *

In the meantime . . .
Good night, and sweet dreams.

Just sayin’ . . .

Brendochka
8/8/25