The Rare Old Mountain Dew

FERDINAND
Biron is like an envious sneaping frost,
That bites the first-born infants of the spring.

BIRON
Well, say I am; why should proud summer boast
Before the birds have any cause to sing?
Why should I joy in any abortive birth?
At Christmas I no more desire a rose
Than wish a snow in May's new-fangled mirth;
But like of each thing that in season grows.
So you, to study now it is too late,
Climb o'er the house to unlock the little gate.

Love that word, sneaping. Merry Fuckin' Christmas, say I. 2007 holds one more TFI after this. Pray we make these two good ones. Laughter, cheer, merriment, etc. And tuxedos to the levees on the first. It is, how you say, inevitable? Indeed. Put on some Shane McGowan. I got a feeling, this year's for me and you.