(Blame the "#GoodnightTwitter" trending topic from earlier this week...)
It's eleven p.m.,
The pizza is cold,
My twelfth-level Mage
Has run short on gold.
My Twitter-stream flows by
At barely a trickle.
Pandora's turned flighty;
Her stations are fickle.
My friends' updates likewise
Have slowed to a crawl.
I hear through the silence
The Facebook games call.
But I'm not keen on farming
Nor buccaneering tonight;
Don't feel like a mobster--
Much less elven knight.
I could turn to my Netflix
On-demand streaming.
(Tho' when credits are rolling,
I'll already be dreaming.)
I could pound down a 'Dew
Or blend a frapee,
Except my IM-mates
Have called it a day.
Or fire up the tablet
And download new apps.
To amuse my remaining
(Non-snoozing) synapse.
Or load my e-Reader
With books new and cool
And hope I don't short it
In a puddle of drool.
Both eyelids are south-bound,
I won't greet the dawn,
Tomorrow's a new day--
Another re-spawn.
But it's Friday night on
A three-day weekend:
And moi turn in early?!?
Cthulu forefend!
