I AM doing X-mas at eight

With a holiday on Monday
Not a _favorite_ of mine
I've held off this long
And now it's finally time

Not summer at eight.

Now that it's December
Warm weather's getting old
At least down here
It would appear
We've *almost* reached some cold

I got some socks, at eight

Any way to fight the darkness
Any bit to spread the light
Plus a few other things
Are what I'll play tonight

This record went gold, at eight

Two small spacecraft have flown
Away from earth, to parts unknown
Like tiny, mechanical mailmen
They carry our hopes to aliens

The first will reach a cluster of stars
In forty-thousand years, so that's far
The constellation (swear you won't laugh)
Is Camelopardalis, AKA a giraffe

Singing about food (but not) at eight

On Thursday, we ate ourselves stupid
Today, some folks went shopping
Tonight's collection of old jazz
Should help get the club hopping

You can't say we don't love you, at eight

It's hard to believe there are debates
It happened six decades ago
And yet there are still
People who will
Say the events are not what we know

But at least we saved the daylight, right? at eight

Standard or daylight saving
It's all a lot of bunk
And getting out of work at night
Has put me in a funk

This IS my costume, at eight

There's a full moon tomorrow
Then later, an eclipse
Those north of the equator
Are certain to miss
Tuesday is costumes
Wednesday, half-off candy
And I'll be out of town
Visiting with my family
While the club's not too spooky
No cobwebs everywhere
The most shocking thing
Might be seeing a human there

Monster Mash at eight

A chill is growing in the air
We're getting back our moon
Time for cuddles and for scares
Autumn now, Halloween soon

Mocking death at eight

 Spooky season is upon us!
Twelve-foot skeletons for sale
A moon-less night is coming
Things from beyond the pale
Enjoy your pumpkin-spiced drinks
And cozy trappings of fall
Like fallen leaves, the rider
In the end, collects us all

Playing dress-up at eight

Though things at work are stressful
And often without reason
At least there's a part you can take to heart
It's the start of spooky season!

Apples and eighties at eight

Shana tova! If you celebrate
Tonight is a lesson. I'm sure you can't wait
The sound of a decade and where it was born
Spoiler alert: It's all Trevor Horn

The genius of this place, at eight

How to get "dwell" was one of our worries
I first saw the model on land shared with furries
"A velvet glove around an iron fist"
The name of the sim. How could we resist?
Land owned by Flopsy, club owned by Push
(This was still back during W. Bush)
Push came to shove and fights led to trouble
The club closed the first time; we danced on the rubble
Reappeared in the air, over a zombie sim
Though called Romero, we never met him
We landed. We shuffled. Again, got shut down
Then built up once more, in a place called Downtown
First Jasper, then Astrud, and finally Maht
We had our own sim. But even that
Wasn't enough. Eventually,
We settled our dear club in fair Odyssey
And so, looking back, through the laughter and tears
It's hard to believe it's been seventeen  just sixteen years

Shake your pirate booty at eight

In these days of AI
Only one things is real
Amateurs may borrow
But professionals steal

Helping to conserve power at eight

Another week of summer
Another week of heat
Another week to stay inside
And admit sweaty defeat

Staying inside forever at eight

We had a cool front on Monday
Something to cheer, but is it?
I can't say it was really "cool"
Just a dip to double digits
 

Cooling off at eight

The fever is gone
And that will suffice
(It was so bad, the weather
Outside felt like nice)

Quarantine with me at eight

There are a lot of diseases
You or I could get
And while the pandemic is "over"
Don't let your guard down yet

Let's forget the real world at eight

Sometimes people lash out
In what I assume is spite
But then I remember, that "angry"
And "hurt" look much alike

Deep thoughts at eight

 Add the middle line
"Living in America"
A perfect haiku

It's all good at eight

The heat continues, as it will
There's hope for rain (yeah, likely chance)
We carry on, through good or ill
We get together and we dance

July is Wrath month, at eight

Goodbye to the temperatures of June
I'm sure July's will be higher
And as we pass, I'll play some tunes
From frying pan to fire.

Staying inside at eight

The year is nearly half-way done
Why did this month take so long?

Celebrating 6/9 at eight

Nice.

Starting a bit early, at seven

 I had a week and so did you
Tonight, I'm playing Ninjatune

I have not died, at eight

What an absolute hell of a May
Only one set short of missing it all
Real life interfered. What can I say?
I was out of town, at a concert, then on-call

Washing off bitter at eight

You know they don't love you
No one really cares
But how would they handle
You not being there?
Even if you could bring
The place down to its knees
No one says "Bless you,"
Whenever you sneeze

A near-miss at eight

 Our motto at work
Should be, "Don't make plans."
What you do with your time
Is out of your hands.

Celebrate at eight

Technical problem,s and all that jive
I'm just happy I'm still alive

More formal at eight

Today was a wash and I know why
This morning, I forgot my tie

It was so bad, I didn't play.

Let's try this at eight

I don't know about you
But this week was hell
I'm glad everyone
Else is doing well

Restarting at eight

I wanted to do this a week ago
But, things came up, you know?

Soooo lucky at eight

There was a lot of wind last night
The neighbors lost a tree
But we all came out alright
So come and dance with me

That was the week that was at eight

Colorless green ideas
Sleep furiously
As for what that means
You got me

Putting Tuesday on a diet at eight

Next week will be March
It's been a strange winter
Now, it's Marti Gras

Move with me at eight

This goes here and that goes there
And where those wind up, I don't care
We'll move it all and rest and then
Later, we'll do it all again

Covers and uncovers at eight

The weather was quite awful
There was danger on the streets
I spent the last three days in bed
Somewhere between the sheets

Covers at eight

"Fake it till you make it,"
They say all the time
Deny your mistakes
Claim what is mine
If people love it
Take a deep bow
And if it's hated
Distance, disavow

We'll muddle through at eight

Traditionally, Friday the thirteenth
Is a signal of bad luck
After this last week at work,
I can only say, "What the--?"