Rise, rise, in the A.M. that’s what I do.
Rise, rise
and get myself a cup of brew.

Beers? Beers?!
I mean coffee, not malty dew.
Beers, beers
last night I had more than a few

Mid-day, perhaps I’ll be snappy,
but I’m moving slowly now.
Eyes, eyes—
must pry ’em apart.

It is now a post-alarm world,
so I have to face the day.
At least this isn’t a farm world
where I’d have to make hay, hey!

Rise, rise—
I have to face work’s scourge each day.
Rise, rise. . .
in bed I wish that I could stay
for just a few more hours only. . .
so nice to be lying down.
Rise, rise:
why must the day start?!

If I could stay I’d be napping
like a fat stuffed-with-grass cow.
Rise, rise. . .
guess I must start.

It is now well past post-alarm world,
yet in the bed still I stay.
This isn’t a Southern charm world
where I can sleep all day—nay!

Rise (argh!), rise (maybe?). . .
debating if I’ll face the day.
Rise, rise—
I’ve decided that here I’ll stay.
My colleagues—gonna be lonely
’cause I won’t be coming ’round.
Bye-bye!
I’m off to the mart
of street ladies that some would call “tarts.”
Oh yeah, and then making hay starts.