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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