Untimely Alarm Poem by Quinten Darrow

I'm forever fightin with the bulldog for my share of the covers.
The way that dog treats my leg, you'd think we were lovers.

Damn don't my wife looks good in that new orange night gown.
I catch her eye, she turns and gives me that familiar frown.

'You know it's late. Besides, the dog and you look so complete.'
Suddenly, I'm drivin down some curvy road. Wait, I'm in the backseat.

Little league, late in the ninth, and I'm running towards the ball.
In the stands, it's Mom and Dad, now they're Bogie and Bacall.

Lo and behold, it's Cyrano de Bergerac, and he's snorting black cocain.
Tom Waits toast Tom Hanks with a tin cup full of champagne.

There she is, she turns her head, about to see her face.
When she does, I turn away. My fear I try to encase.

Something must be amiss, not quite right. My house is in disarray.
A magnolia wind lifts me up and gently whisks me away.

A white room filled with nothing, secret knowledge, I'm about to learn.
Just as I embrace my bliss, Jim Varney starts screamin, 'Hey Vern.'

Why must you relentlessly mock me with your blaring, uncaring fiendish alarm.
Go to squash that dastardly bell, slept wrong, can't move my arm.

As I jump out of bed to defeat that annoyingly cursed foe.
Wouldn't you know it, of course, I stub my big left toe.

I slip and hit my head. Now the whole room is spinning.
My wife, remember her, well she's sitting up in bed, devilishly grinning.

And now that she's up, you might wanna heed this friendly warning.
Cause, she's gonna say, 'With him around, this kinda thing happens every morning.'

QCD