Saturday Breakfast .

Sitting here all alone, everyone's gone
It's so peaceful, that I think I might write
But yet here I sit, waiting for what.

My inspiration's gone AWOL, it's gone on strike.

I got up made breakfast, for the old boy and me.

A glass of freshly squeezed orange juice,

Just to wake us up with a zing, 

He likes a boiled egg on Saturday's with one soldier, not three.
 

I myself like a sailor,  but I like more than one,

As one wouldn't be enough, to dip into my lovely, soft boiled egg

I like fresh, brewed coffee, he likes a cup of tea

Then he likes some croissants with some honey, you see.

I like a lovely piece of toast, not soggy, hate soggy toast, don't you know

With home, made marmalade, with Seville oranges you see, 

There's nothing like it don't you agree.

Then I go and shower whilst the boy does the dishes

Then I hang the washing out, it looks like a Chinese laundry.
I 've got three long lines and there all full you see,
It's a good job it's a nice day to dry it in the breeze.

I thought the old brain gone on strike, but it seems it's coming alive.

And am not so sure I like what's coming out of my mouth
Oh no, now I 've got all the blooming ironing,

And I hate that with a vengeance, don't you know 

I 'll just have to get Tchaikovsky out to help me, not to get so bored.

And as I iron, he plays the most amazing music.

In my mind am, dancing, the swan lake's waltz  

Floating on cloud nine. As I come down to earth,

We look at the other and wink, Saying isn't life a bitch.

                                                                                                                                                                                         BY CONNIE JAMES