I was asked to create a holiday,
What about a pyjama day?
We would not get dressed at all,
Stay in bed, hide and stall,
Sit around in flannelette,
Stay in PJ's, don't get dressed,
In fact, don't wash or cook,
Do mental slumming with ****** books!

I rewrote a song called, "Denim and Lace,'
Hope this brings a laugh to your face,
"Pyjamas and Fleece,
I look fat in everything,
And you are a fat old king,
Making me do everything,
Wearing P.J.'s and fleece!"
No hot speed dates to me,
I remove my bra at half past three,
No need to be a sook,
I'll curl up here and write a book,
"Wearing P.J.'s and fleece!'

If you put an open book on your face and breathe in the softness of the pages,
And your cheeks feel the heaviness of the words pressed against them:
You will absorb all the knowledge inside of the book
And the story will sink into your skin, like warmth after a long day in the sun.

If your pyjamas smell like the sun,
They have disappeared into the back of your wardrobe
And gone back home when you were asleep
Returning when the sun peeks in through the lines in your walls.

If it is late in the morning
Then the morning loves you and your sleepy face
and the quietness of your thoughts as you wake.

i do not want to sleep
in my clothes again
but i don't have the energy
to put my pyjamas
into the dryer.

there is no cure quite like for the dour
than clean pyjamas post-long-hot-shower.
with a sigh and a hug and flannel kisses to yer ***
hot shower/clean pyjamas: for when a day is done.

he got them in a box, over Christmas
and he wore them everyday that week
the pyjamas, they were blue and white
oh how cozy he was each night

at age eight, the world was his oyster
and he dreamed of hanging bridges
the pyjamas, they made him fly
oh how, how he soared so very high

he tucked them away, as the flowers grew
and away they were kept year by year

the boy still closed his eyes, though
he was led into a world, by himself
the pyjamas, they were catching dust
this world, a place oozing with lust

he glanced at them, as the flowers wilted
and glanced at they were, year by year

it started a crack in the boy's voice
Peter Pan was now fictional
the pyjamas, were still there for him
but he, took each day with more grim

he opened the box in his closet, as the flowers grew again

it was a metamorphosis
you could even tell by the hair on his face
the pyjamas, they no longer fit
and now he, had a reputation of grit

he tucked them away, as the flowers grew
and away they were kept year by year

his son received something similar, over Christmas
the little boy hoped for a video game
the pyjamas, still blue and white
held less significance at night*




it was time to throw his pyjamas away
he burnt his child-like innocence, as
his memories - slowly - became dull, and grey