Ding dong it is midnight.
The wicked witch will remain.
She will be marked in daily blocks,
As we leaf page-by-page,
Through hardware-store calendar.
Her evil spell will be felt,
Throughout the coming dozen,
The 52 repeated stretches,
From Sunday through Saturday.
A toxic brew which she conjured,
Especially for our benefit,
A blanketing pox under which we live,
Will cover the days we inhabit,
An inescapable, personal burden.