Morning

Rolled and groaned and tore the sheets

Made to exit the suffocating heat.

Snarled at the light that came through the blinds,

Heaved a sigh as I wiped my weary eyes.

Oh, the grandness of the dawn!

Beauty in the pallet, and the birds' graceful songs.

This charming time is simply not for me:

I'd rather wake up at quarter to three.

But I must remove myself from this bed,

And greet the day with a pounding head.

My throat it aches and tears my voice,

It's morning: How could I possibly rejoice?

I stretch and yawn and slowly shift

My body in a single lift.

I look around in much dismay:

My room is always messier at the start of the day.

I pluck my hairbrush from the piles,

I walk down the hall: it seems to go on for miles.

At last I reach the bathroom door,

Feeling like a marooned pirate swimming to shore.

I brush my teeth and wash my face,

I comb my hair at a rather slow pace.

Am I feeling less sleepy? Absolutely not.

The tire has me drunk like a very strong draught.

And so with drained limbs I move on with my day,

To work and study, to laugh and play.

When I return to my bed I fall in with a grin,

Though it disappears at the thought of waking again.

The end.