The wrong side of bed again,
something that's beyond boredom.
From aberration to habit,
mornings drag my back to the sack.
Is it the pied piper on horse,
or a tired journeyman in play.
It's growing over the barbed wires,
now the art should prove its worth.
That fresh day never comes,
maybe it will by sunrise next.
Park and the restored Chi,
blocks in flow and a plumbing job.
In deep the dew-filled life,
out goes the moor and weed.
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