And the time has come
When I just have to get
A few cups of coffee
Down my parched throat
A slice of bread
Or maybe a biscuit
Goes down so well at half past nine
Sunday morning
I'm about to crack
Because
There's so much to be done
I don't think
That I have the time
Or the motivation
For anything
Let's all go back to bed
And postpone the week for a while
It's all just
Melancholia
And I'd rather get back to drinking

Read my book
Watch a movie
There's so little enthusiasm
Get my letters ready for the post
Tomorrow
Which is Monday Morning

What's the meaning of this?
Weekends as an extension of the week
That's all there is to it
I prefer a drink and then some sleep
And I won't come out to the pub
Because I'd rather wait alone in my room
And spend a little less, at best
I'll go out to a million different gigs
And I'll remember them all
Money's tight
But it's a Sunday morning so
I don't really notice

Pop down to the corner shop and
I buy a little milk
Drink it down just for entertainment
There is so little of anything to do
On a Sunday morning

Half past twelve
Have an early lunch
It relieves the boredom for a while
Make my omelette, a little glass of wine
And I'll have some mushrooms, too
And if I feel
Particularly grey
I might go back to bed for an hour or two
And watch a movie
And read my book
And get some sleep

Writing poetry is cathartic
In the extreme
Sunday morning
Really gets to me
And now it gets to you too
But I don't mind I need another coffee
And counting down until lunchtime
And I'm not even hungry,
So I'll probably end up
Playing guitar
For hours
And hours
Again

And if the mood takes me
I might walk around the town
And sketch the people walking past
Or maybe write some verse
But it's too cold to get anything done so
I'll stay right here
I'm so sick of mediocrity
That
I could spit
So Sunday morning
Here I am again
And
Let's hope this week brings
Some kind of hope