Let this ritual hangover begin,
Where you’ll see no smiling,
The joy that those twelve gave,
Are now locked away in a cave,
It’s time to return to familiar queues,
And sing the January Blues.
All your money has been spent,
In moments that were heaven sent,
Your struggle has to make it’s start,
So, that your plan doesn’t fall apart,
You start your crying over fiscal rues,
Whilst you sing the January Blues.
Back to the drawing board you go,
To tolerate a pace that’s drab and slow,
At work, those orders, again are testy,
The cold returns, so now you’re chesty,
Now your surrounded by snotty tissues,
As you try to sing the January Blues.
As you sip your medicinal broth,
A holiday, you think may soothe your wroth,
To escape the frost that horribly bites,
Alas, wallet sparse, so no foreign sites,
Frustrated, a brochure you’ll flick through
Whilst humming those January Blues.
“I suppose it’s nice to be back to normal.”
You say to yourself, being so formal,
As your business can’t grow by itself,
So happily, you replenish those shelves,
Your regular joy now starts to infuse,
Though you still sing the January Blues.
Your family and friends are thinking alike,
“This month shall not make a social spike”,
Thus, I apologise, smiling you’ll now see,
Because of a warm sense of revelry,
Back in full swing you are, so create the news,
Write your own song, not the January Blues.