Everyday seems like a Sunday.
Seven-twenty-four-hour clock.
The relaxing earl mayer grey.
Then walk to someone from the block.
The food served in platter hot.
Worry free minutes awake,
and every snooze I make on spot.
Plus a few vision painting make.
All is free to be and be
that is a pronounced bumming decree.
All I wanted is a little space.
So all the more for a starry gaze.
After a lengthen day rest
one finds surprised to be robbed
by the quick fading face green;
money’s ever changing test.
All I want is some long night sleep.
Yet now I sleep pass the fare of a jeep.
I wished before for a week-long play
Turns out, everyday is now a Sunday.
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