I greet each fresh dew-spangled dawn
With scowl and wild convulsive yawn;
I punch the pillow savagely,
And wish it were not six, but three;
I hope some messy, drastic harm
Might fall up on my good alarm;
I stretch full length, and scratch my scalp,
And tell those birds to climb an Alp;
Then, wishing with a heart-felt sob
That some Laplander had my job,
I give a final heave and shout.
The day is won: I’m up and out!
by Ray Romine Friday, January 23, 1953
