I read somewhere that good writers borrow but great writers steal, so, purely in the interest of advancing my career, I feel totally comfortable – not to mention upwardly-mobile – in saying that now is the winter of our discontent.
‘Twas the week before Christmas and all through downtown, Not a creature was stirring, Elm Street was shut down. Oh, the road? Sure it’s open – try to cross if you dare – But most of the widows and store fronts are bare.