POEM - SUNDAY MORNINGS

SUNDAY MORNINGS
on Sunday mornings
she’d go to church
and I’d lie in my bed
with a can of cheap beer
it only took a couple
for me to get rip roaring drunk again
I’d call up my friends
all around the country
tell ‘em I was still a jobless man
but that I was having
a hell of a time with it
I had the economy on my side
in those days
the great, big scape goat
“well,” I’d say,
“with this economy and all,
no use even bothering
with the job hunt.
I’ll just sit tight and wait it out
just play around with the keys
and if things get too bad, I can always
just go out to the canyon
and lay down to die.”