Every time I turn around;

there's too much to do, I'm fogbound.

It's funny though, I don't punch the clock;

believe it or not it is not poppycock.

Sip my morning coffee, then have some cereal;

my morning litany, seems to me congenial.

Gotta make the bed, now the phone rings;

darn telemarketers, like a bee that stings.

Now I must do my nails, upstairs and down;

they're much too sharp, say good-bye to my frown.

Gotta do the laundry, check the mail in between;

looks like I need another round of caffeine.

Gotta take a shower, lookin' forward to lunch;

the door bell rings, I sure had a hunch.

Avon calling, please take a brochure;

soup boiled over, now I must restore.

Gotta sweep the bird crap from the front doormat;

everyday it just lands there, splat, splat, splat.

Can't forget to sweep the rear patio deck ya see;

all those things from the trees, takes away my glee.

Seems to me I gotta go grocery shopping;

soon as I return I'll do some brainstorming.

After the vacuum cleaning I'll write some poetry;

was never really any good at trigonometry.

Had a home once, used to mow the lawn;

just thinking about it makes me yawn.

Forget about watching TV, must read and relax;

now I can't hear the birds, gotta remove the earwax.

Every time I turn around;

there's too much to do, I must propound.

Finally it's Sunday, a day for some rest;

lay aside all earthly cares, it's just the best.