Sunday morning tea
Under the orange dragonflies
Listening to Bensky
Awake beneath pagan skies

Off to the farmer's market
We pass by little Stonehenge
Woodpecker on the bark sits
Finally the squirrels get their revenge

Italian man plays polkas
As we eat Russian pastries
And drink Mexican mochas
Everything in town is so tasty

Who gets blasted and who probes?
Check the mail and the friend’s page
Wearing our velvet robes
We clean the little rodents' cage

Across the great divide
Above and beyond the landlord
Let's go for a bike ride
To look at houses we can't afford

Later in the autumn eve
When the soup is on the stove
We'll dance around like grebes
And watch shows about Karl Rove

Retiring to the boudoir
The chinches have had their hay
Wouldn't it be a good law
If it were Sunday every day?

Sunday morning tea
One day more, why can't we?