Poem:Enid Blyton Perfection.
Enid Blyton Perfection.
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It is eight o’clock on a Sunday morning
And there’s the whole day not touched yet.
We’ll have papers to read and coffee to drink
There’s doors to unlock and birds to feed
Nothing to do and all day to do it in,
What more could you ask of the Sunday
That you have waited the whole week for.
Then there’s the Sunday dinner to sit and eat
With beef and potatoes and Yorkshire puds
There’s a bottle of red, just breathing and warmed
Standing upright amongst the crockery.
I cannot imagine that a Sunday could pass
Without me knowing what the vicar did.
It’s perfect really, in a naughty world
Of change, dissent, terrorists and bad news
It is redolent of childhood and Enid Blyton,
In short, it is a form of perfection, regularly revisited.
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