I like my Sundays, <br />most of all the afternoons. <br />When the same visitors <br />come around four, <br />Mr. Glen Fittock, suit and tie <br />a Gentleman named Jack <br />who lives near the racoons, <br />we sit around at first <br />and have some pie, <br />the wife then asks <br />'who'd like some more? ', <br />she has this little bitty knack <br />to overlook a growing thirst <br />and does not recognise our stoic masks, <br />until the word is uttered, 'glasses', <br />and then the three of us, <br />and sometimes more, <br />sit on our civil asses, <br />don't make a fuss <br />perhaps, (at least it's what I think) <br />the only way one can ignore <br />the world as such, with all its faults <br />is, in good company sit back and drink <br />be it the sour mash or malt.<br /><br />Herbert Nehrlich<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/sunday-afternoons-2/
