Sunday Afternoons

I like my Sundays, most of all the afternoons. When the same visitors come around four, Mr. Glen Fittock, suit and tie a Gentleman named Jack who lives near the racoons, we sit around at first and have some pie, the wife then asks 'who'd like some more? ', she has this little bitty knack to overlook a growing thirst and does not recognise our stoic masks, until the word is uttered, 'glasses', and then the three of us, and sometimes more, sit on our civil asses, don't make a fuss perhaps, (at least it's what I think) the only way one can ignore the world as such, with all its faults is, in good company sit back and drink be it the sour mash or malt.