All is quiet on New Year’s Day,
so Bono and his cohorts say.
But noise enough to wake the dead
is pounding all around my head
and cannot, will not go away.
My deeds are reckoned; now I pay
for gulping down that sweet rosé
and it can, with no truth, be said
that all is quiet.
Somewhere near, the children play
on biscuit tin and metal tray.
The dog is howling to be fed;
the telly’s blaring Mister Ed.
Beneath the eiderdown, I pray
all may be quiet.