Sad song

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.

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