My graveyard shift a decade gone, but still
The master both of mind and body yet.
This first of sev'ral bedtimes always will
Feel like the real one, but this time of year
It's least successful of the many. There
Up in my attic bedroom, you can hear
My podcasts booming through the stuffy air,
The better to compete with noisy fans,
A-spin like windmills trying hard to fight
The heat that's built up all day long. No chance
That they can win, of course; no, not tonight.
Someday, of course, I'll say that 88's
A temp'rature to envy, not to hate.
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