Waking On Sunday

I wake when she disturbs the layers of soft feather, my inner man is rushing to and fro she makes excuses, 'look at this fine weather', I nod but briefly, wishing her to go. Those mongrel dogs get all excited once again bear no respect for sleepers, none at all. Next door the happy message from the Leghorn hen that she has laid an egg for Master Ben. A moped scares the birds out of their nest while ugly crows sit on the gutter, spreading scorn, today is Sunday and the Lord says man should rest I'm drifting off, was that the postman's yellow horn? Well no, it ain't the postie, he still sleeps, must be that pimple-covered kid, the pastor's son. He does reside on a fine street devoid of creeps but comes to visit here, dear Lord give me a gun. I sink again, and with the help of God resume deep slumber, catching that forgotten dream. When bells are ringing, very loudly, which is odd it's only 10, a bit too early it would seem. Oh no, it is, a diesel truck at that, ice cream for all, a song is played for free. The silly clown, falsetto voice and hat makes me jump out of bed, I do go pee. Out of my window, in a tall and golden arch to show the bastards what I think of their IQ, when from the alley comes a group of men who march in floppy uniforms, like monkeys from the zoo. A trumpeteer who leads the charge toward my home is only young and has capacity to blow I have no doubt that they can hear him clear in Rome two aging drummers complement this noisy show. I make a breakfast fit for Gods and Jack Lalanne a dozen eggs soon cover slices of fat beef. Moroccan coffee helps to drive away the pain yet there is inner strong demand for more relief. So I stand up and in pyjamas face the crowd out near the picket fence (which is a work of art) . And then release a clear and present, also loud staccato thirty second and delicious fart.