Luxuriant in licensed sloth,
I brush crumbs off the table cloth
And pour a second cup of tea.
A blesséd day—a whole day free.

Free from wearing out one’s bones
With meetings, gripes and telephones,
From red tape and the idle slurs
Of employees—and customers!

A lazy walk along the lane?
My goodness, but it looks like rain.
I’ll read the paper, then; oh dear,
The dog’s been at it—never fear,

I’ll potter in the greenhouse, where
My ripe tomatoes scent the air.
What’s that? I didn’t catch your drift.
Your mother says you need a lift?

A lift to where? The Pony Club?
(I’ll sneak a pint down at the pub—
Or maybe two with any luck.)
What’s that about the pickup truck?

A tyre is flat? The spare will do.
Your brother says the spare’s flat, too?
Well, off you go and fetch the nag,
I’ll hook the box up to the Jag.

Spreadeagled in the pouring rain—
I’ve put my back out—Lord, the pain!
Don’t touch me, lass, I’ll crawl instead,
And lie down on the sofa-bed.

That’s better. Now what’s on TV?
I’ll watch the cricket. Dearie me,
The rain’s stopped play. I’ll snooze. Oh hell,
Who’s that at the front door bell?

Your mother, dear, has come to stay?
Will no one stretcher me away
And lead me to my suit and tie—
Who needs these days of rest? Not I!