The clock seeks the hour to change the day,

yet left here alone in the repose of hours gone by,

remind me of this time again,

this (winter) of discontent,

that somewhere in our universe

there were the start,

the repeat,

the accentuation,

of words,

that wordsmith,

the Bard might celebrate

with a pint,

unknowing he would be

revered

in study and emulation

in rhythm and human condition

to raise an eyebrow upon

every role we adventure,

centuries later.