It's what you make of Sunday when it comes.
It comes to this, unless you give up air-
Which isn't what I mean, we all need some-
To eyes that cover up with clouds and hair.

And if you could just get out of the deal,
How easily would happiness be found?
No logical connection spins the wheel-
No reason that the feeling comes around.

Of course you can pretend, or fake again,
When all you really feel is misery.
I've been there when it wasn't fun, and when
It could have been described as ecstasy.

A southern slant, a tricky smile, is all
I've got to get the things I want, a note
Of melancholy tasting skin in fall,
When green gives up it's shade to winter's coat.