It's fairly early and the
hurly burly of a Sunday
hasn't yet begun.
In the church, the hymns are being sung because we all know that the Christians never sleep and in Whitehall the swingometer's swung again.

But it's early and there's instant coffee in the ***, ersatz because that's all I can afford to buy, but I don't cry about the little things, in the slow cooker which is slower if it's not switched on is a leg of turkey and a chicken wing,
let the Christians sing that out loud and proud,
I keep my spirits up by downing one or two and sometimes even three small tots of 'three barrels' an inferior brand of brandy and when I'm drunk enough it's  'whatever' I want life to be which is rather handy when I can't see a fiddlers elbow or tell a polka from a microdot.

Anyway
Sunday always wants what I haven't got to say and so the Christians who we all know never sleep
keep my pew warm in the aisle and in a little while or when the brandy's done I might amble over to the church and pray a bit to God, and of course his son and who knows I might be the prodigal, it's not impossible, a sow's curse  can be made from many a pigs fear and to be of any kind of cheer good or not
I find it's best to have another tot and totter off.