In the great Scottish tradition we are declaring a P.O.E.T.S. Day. Piss Off Early, Tomorrow’s Saturday.

Don’t let the weekend sneak up on you. Fake a cough, tell the boss your wife is having a seizure, maybe your dog is sick…. whatever. Get out of that place. Leave the office asap. We have beer and wine and you have suffered through the work week long enough. Run.

Today’s Poet’s Day is brought to you by the particularly depraved Dylan Thomas.

He didn’t just die, he took the entirety of the reputation of Wales and crashed into a holy hell fire of holy hell fire. This is a sentence from his Wikipedia entry: “ After these trips, Warner would bring Thomas back for supper with his aunt. On one occasion, when she served him a boiled egg, she had to cut its top off for him, as Thomas did not know how to do this.” I have no idea how that’s possible.

This guy was amazing.

On the night he died he claimed to have had twenty-six shots of whisky. In a pre-dram shop liability world the bartender contradicted him. Per the barman he only had eighteen shots.

My suspicion is that he did not go quietly.

Do Not Go Gentle Into That Good Night

Do not go gentle into that good night,
Old age should burn and rave at close of day;
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

Though wise men at their end know dark is right,
Because their words had forked no lightning they
Do not go gentle into that good night.

Good men, the last wave by, crying how bright
Their frail deeds might have danced in a green bay,
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

Wild men who caught and sang the sun in flight,
And learn, too late, they grieved it on its way,
Do not go gentle into that good night.

Grave men, near death, who see with blinding sight
Blind eyes could blaze like meteors and be gay,
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

And you, my father, there on the sad height,
Curse, bless, me now with your fierce tears, I pray.
Do not go gentle into that good night.
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

Well put. Happy POETS Day.