So we are drawing neigh to close.
The year most gone.
In our time ripose.
A perchance pregnant poignant reflection.
So thought of the next oncoming year.
It approaches ever on.
Consulted by unknown seer.
Her reply in unknown song.
So gander yonder past the future mists.
This too will reproduction.
With many a peer.
Onwards now lest times dissipation.
While poets will a waste,
and miss their own tastes,
next year – ah sure,
that will be the one,
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