My morning's reserved for my scones and preserves
and a grumble or scurrilous sigh.
I've no words before brewing some coffee worth chewing;
just mutter and sputter and cry.
By lunch I might stop for a chips and a pop
and I might even chat for a few.
But the things that I say will seem light years away
and I'd be quite confused, were I you.
Once dinner sneaks up and I've Scotch in my cup
I'll complain of the rain and the sun
and the earth and the fire and the tread on my tire
and the fact that I've never had fun.
At ten there's the news, then a quick sofa snooze
then an hour to wake up again.
If lucky, I'm plucky (at least more than sucky)
as fingers spread ink from my pen.
My smiles I reserve for these midnight hors d’oeuvres
these commemorative odes to the breeze;
Where I slip through the streams of fantastical schemes
as I sail the grammatical seas