This is the call from the deep yonder,
to join me in a prelude to my transition onto a higher plane,
To come and celebrate an added year of wisdom,
another pile of history books to burn.

A raging river has flushed under the hollow of the bridge,
and it's that time of the season
When instead of snowballs and skating on thin ice,
we're diving and dunking into aquatic masses
Only to find ourselves like fish out of water
waiting for the big bang of our molecular universes

Time waits for no creature,
and procrastination is the happy fellow who has no sympathy   . s . c . r . o . l . l .   .   . that vertical bar.

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or even slipping of tongue.