The blue sky, the bird and the butterfly, In all their cerulean glory, for my attention do vie, I strain my brain to not give a grain, Putting to work all those years of train. Teasing me with a sweep and caress, The evening breeze seeks to ease my brows creased with stress. Yet I persevere, hard and fast, But I do fear my will won't last, Alas, I have been at this for the day past. Yet, to my master, I implore, The myriad distractions shall you ignore! Dear, hippocampus , I've a lot of work you see, Do, I can't , all that which would set my spirit free. And so despite the finger itch, I must put in the next stitch. Yet, I see how you're writing without a glitch, And now the urge to have me read has reached , a fever's pitch. Ah well, about physiology, (for now), the devil may care, For I will pick up that pen and lay my thoughts bare. Thus, I write, frigid and terse, And out flows this rusty verse. * to all the connoisseurs out there...