The morning's shot,
I haven't done a thing;
I loaf and do nothing,
my phone, it doesn't ring.

I read and watch t.v.,
the newspaper lies dormant;
unread, too much bad news,
******, **** - a constant torment.

I eat without much relish,
it's just to feed my face;
I'm vegetating hours,
without an even pace.

Four days of beard growth,
the stubble suits me fine;
I lounge in tattered clothes,
perhaps you know the kind.

The afternoon wears on,
I haven't done a thing;
I wait with blasé feelings,
for what the night may bring.