I wish that Sunday morning could last forever,
Those tranquil moments from nine until noon,
A deep serenity, not so much a bever,
Laying in bed, arising none too soon.
These sacred Cartesian moments of reflection,
A time to assess the week’s appraisal,
Sometimes I’ve done well, sometimes sheer dereliction,
Contrasts that grasp archetypal hazel.
I say it’s through Sunday all things are possible,
No other day do I feel so much vim,
Morning’s when my mind is still soft and docible,
When my thoughts are clear and kind, without sin.
Whoever He may be may not bother me now,
I only worry about Hims at night,
Sunday morning coming down is for me, not thou,
On Sunday morning I’m free as a kite.