A Sunday is a dozy day,
Where teenage beds are filled,
lie ins til lunchtime again,
they'll tell you it's a day of rest,
Then they'll hop out of bed screaming for tea,
or maybe coffee if they're more like me.

Unless of course, the reader here is getting prepped to praise the Lord.
Sunday,
Maybe,
a day for all the good folk,
to relax in their own Gethsemane,
pulling up weeds, or planting seeds,
Repairing seasonal life,
just spent or sowing more,
true and anew,
Hoeing and furrowing,
All out for growing

There are no olive groves,
running through the gardens,
of the English lords and ladies,
It's much too cold at this time of year.
Nobody's spreading gospels,
nor penning epistles in the average British gardens.
The only words spoken are spread only by birds,
In a language, not understood by many.
While the mother of nature,
she strips the trees bare.
Oh well, another Sunday en route,
half a week to go and I just couldn't care.
(C) Livvi