Miscreant Morning

Morning is no time for sweet nothings
For canoodling, for necking, petting, coochie coo.
Not anymore, boo and hoo.
Morning is for sleeping in.
Or trying to.
For chasing that newspaper chor
And the HT he steals from outside my door.
Morning is when doorbells ring
And loudly, wretched birds sing.
The dhobi hollers, the brat next-door whines,
On the radio, for white-skin-u-girl, Dhanush pines.
In the lawn outside, an unlikely drama unfolds:
Silently, the yoga yuppie contorts all his parts,
He pulls and stretches; his tush breaks many hearts.
Morning is for tepid, tasteless, twice-tortured tea,
Tripe that does nothing but make you want to pee.
Through it all, the dog barks his head off
At Fat Kitty, lounging on the terrace half-wall,
Rotund and smug, she's like some scamster's moll.
Morning is so overrated.
It sucks, it's a killjoy, a bore , a pain,
I wish I'd never see a blasted morning again.