On Sunday Morning

On Sunday morning
The birds don't sing
Cos bacon rolls
Are not their thing

Instead they read
The Sunday Post
And slowly peck
A piece of toast

Fatties run
To fight off guilt
Lazies lie
Beneath their quilt

Some awake
To lottery wins
Others pray
To fight off sins

On Sunday morning
The world reflects
On how we're all
Just tiny specs

Of dust and fluff
And fat and bone
Of hope and fear
Of being alone

On Sunday morning
The birds don't sing
Ikea meatballs
Are not their thing

I can't talk
I'm not hip
I sit and stare
To find a blip