Torpor overtakes your bard, who's sprawled out, in his
Swimsuit, on a chair, in shade, in hellish heat, resigned
To being both too hot and pestered by his yapping wife.
The upshot is: today, no poem. Try to entertain yourself,
As I stare at the corn and haze, and dream of my wife
Stopping speaking, being submerged in the pool,
And one more well-chilled beer, which, though, refreshing,
Cannot wrest this bard from stifling lassitude.