"An ephedra cocktail to perk the blues away, Your Highness?"
"But of course..."
Again king for the day, though sadly as is the modus operandi of any horsehide squad so managed, now or about a month and a half into the new season is when my boys of spring usually push forward and expectedly occupy the driver's seat momentarily. Alas the dog days of summer ahead will see fit to wilt this momentum and the hope sprung eternal from smoke and mirrors inevitably clears. And the cold, dark cellar beckons its dank claim as Lola sings her song.
This is such a cruel, cruel game.