Three o' clock on this grey afternoon.

Another dull November Sunday.

I wonder what I did last year,

on this same old dreary day ?

 

Stayed in bed late as I have no money,

and this room is the tidiest in the house.

I try to work out my forthcoming budget,

not that it does any good.

 

The window is in my attention,

complete with grey skies and speckles of rain.

The net curtain is like a layer of white,

posed against the silver rain dropped pane.

 

Even my spider plant looks exhausted,

all drained of life.

Yet it still continues to thrive,

as the wind now blows the curtains.

I also continue to thrive.

 

I have the hunger pains,

it's time for the Sunday roast.

But I know that the kitchen's in such a state,

after the use of dirty lodgers.

 

No fags nor tobacco to smoke,

I went dizzy a few moments ago,

from a secondhand stub from out of the ashtray.

 

Nothing even on T.V,

though I still smile cos I know that things must change.

But Sundays - well,

they don't really do that much for me at all.