The Day

What a magical thing is the day,

Full of gaiety, laughter and play;

When the yellow sun giggles

And draws bright red squiggles

How inspired do we feel by its ray.

What a wonderful thing is the day,

How regretful when it goes away,

Enjoying such light

What a fright is the night

When it smudges our vista with grey.

What a fabulous thing is the day,

It really is lovely like May;

When the morning has broke

On our cornflakes we choke,

Then shake our fists at such affray.

What a naughty old thing is the day

Like the lady who loves her Milk Tray,

It makes us all work,

Does let none of us shirk,

Then hies her to bed with its pay.

What a ravenous thing is the day,

It throttles us with its foray.

It gutters and splutters

And with its knife butters

Our toast until smothered we lay.

What a beast of despair is the day,

It murders us with a loud bray;

Says, ‘Fool you for living,

Your lifeblood I'm sieving,

That'll teach you my borders to stray.’

What an enemy arch is the day,

It beckons, then slaughters in fray.

We're best undercover,

Our duvets as lover,

Never give it the chance have its way!

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