The ham with cloves
from all the kitchen stoves
sits upon the table drear
waiting for the presbyter.
Dad takes out his dentures,
while speaking of debentures.
Mother disapproving,
the dishes all removing.
Sunday TV shows
with their trope-infested prose;
how I long for some ice cream
to sweeten up my young blood stream.
Canned laughter as I cry
when it's time for beddy-bye.
But I take the Sunday funnies
into bed with fairy bunnies.
So the Sabbath day I keep
while I'm hopping off to sleep.
Then the voice of Allen Funt
from downstairs says I'm a runt.
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