The clock is ticking as it strives to meet the time of noon.
The sound of coffee perking is just one of morning's tunes.
An airplane rushes overhead and puppies curl on unmade beds.
The grown-ups work while children run to play.
The weekend's finally here. It's Saturday.
A hammer strikes another nail to help repair a house.
A little lady sparrow's calling to her long, lost spouse.
A gentle breeze comes through the trees and blends for perfect harmonies
as family travelers head out on their way.
The weekend world begins with Saturday.
And I can't help but wonder if the simple things I see
are part of our realistic world, or just plain fantasy.
And somehow bees who always sting look like they won't hurt anything.
And somehow all the hate we knew is covered by the morning dew.
But clocks strike noon, within coming doom, and put, without a warning
and end to our beautiful Saturday morning.
And I can't help but wonder if the simple things I see
are part of our realistic world, or just plain fantasy.
And somehow bees who always sting look like they won't hurt anything.
And somehow all the hate we knew is covered by the morning dew.
But clocks strike noon, within coming doom, and put, without a warning
and end to our beautiful Saturday morning.
No comments:
Post a Comment