Some are for pleasure, some are for pay-
I notice there's no list of things I should say.
Words are made by volunteers.
We do what we must do, most of the time,
Work, wander and worship, Caritas and crime,
And reserve to our liberty, those minutes most prime,
Selective invective toward each neighbor who hears.
For what is a man, but the sum of his grousing,
Over healthcare, despair, law, whiskey or housing?
A man in his grief, like a cat in her mousing,
Pursues his own nature and forgets his own fears.
And so, today, providence finally has granted
To we who rose upright, made fire and ranted
The means to pronounce our fretting unslanted,
By blog, bloodless bluster and unsalted tears.
WEBLOG, n. A personal chronicle of universal stasis.