It’s not unusual for me to write poems in the middle of the night or very early in the morning, and then go back to bed. Plus, I have never been a morning person. So, when I roll out of bed may strike some people as a bit late. This poem is an ode to finishing my days work before I even get out of bed for the day.
On Call
How do you roll
In the mettle of the mourning
From bunk to what is called
Work, work, work
A greed
Sow late in the day
Awe ready
Having ridden
More than won poem
Fore the sun even daring
To show its face
And if that doesn’t make cents
You can stick it
Wear the sun don’t shine