At six I wake, roused by the crash of thunder
I sneeze, I freeze, my dreams in disarray
The rain beats down; I creep more warmly under
My quilt, but frown: this cannot be my day
At eight I rise, all hope of sleep forsaking
Shaving, I cut my chin, but have no plaster
My tongue blasphemes, my wisdom tooth is aching
The TV talks of doomsday and disaster
Since marketing a greedy free-for-all is,
The milk is old, the butter rank and rancid;
The loaf, now full of mould and creepy-crawlies,
Deprives me of the golden toast I fancied
My laces break, my zip derails, a fuse blows
The kettle wails, but fails to boil or bubble
The ceiling leaks, my footwear squeaks, my muse slows
And laboured verse is hardly worth the trouble
The cat throws up. The walls are damp, the floor creaks
This day was black, some bugbear’s blast to break me;
To bed! I want to sleep for forty-four weeks
And hope that things are better when they wake me.
