A Half-Assed ConcertoHere you come traipsing into modern language, professing the doom and gloom of love and longing, sing-songing a weary winch driven wail, floating high on prevailing winds. Delighting in sins. A thrice chided suckling from the brood of modernity, eternity nipping at your heels like a gaggle of eels. And wherefore dost thou scold me? Me, the overbold and underpaid harbinger of lacklustre, celebrated mediocrity. The winds of change scour our bones with a billion specks of sand, the grand finale of a half-assed concerto, drilling the monotony of time in the courtyard. Ours is the road more traveled, unraveling, unravelled, and stomped in the dust, imbibed in the soil, churned over with toil. Lost on the wind, and forgotten to most, then revived and reviled by a staggering host. The blood soaked truncheon of a precious few, and over it, we're all muttering "I do, I do."