The Twelfth of Never

I really should fix that leak
where ice-cold rain sees fit to seep,
this oath of futility that I speak
another vow I’ll fail to keep.

My ambition, like the rain
drizzles intermittently,
then flows quickly down the drain,
a brief sprinkling desultory.

Cursed to flounder in the gale,
hindered by conviction weak;
swearing as I dump the pail—
I really should fix that leak.