Sourness escapes my lips,
Pulling tails around my waist,
Into my oldest shoes I slip,
Italian beasts from a bygone age.

My eyes are full of nothing today,
That is except for weariness,
And perhaps a little tiny streak,
Of something resembling  belligerence.

My clock was screaming out dismay,
And I displaced it on a whim,
Desperately searching for a way,
To snooze until a different day.

But no sirree that couldn't be me,
Because this morning I believe,
That I've too much reliability,
To let such sourness ruin me.