Wine-soaked sundays
what a time to lounge
Wine-soaked sundays,
full of cheese and pearls
Wine-soaked sundays,
what an hour to cackle!
Wine-soaked sundays,
when the obligations melt
Wine-soaked sundays,
when we are softly raw
Wine-soaked sundays,
when ladies conduct "leisure"
Wine soaked sundays,
where the smiles conceal nothing
It is another Sunday in the winter.
I am properly tucked in my quilt.
I browse through the top headlines of the hour.
It says the temperature outside is two-degree centigrade and I quit
all ideas of leaving my quilt.
Sundays are for poetry
it's just the way it is
The fact that I should mow the lawn
doesn't get me in a tiz
Because Sundays are for poetry
that's just the way it is
perhaps I should go write that down
into a poem such as this
