In the morning for a writer,
There is nothing like the smell
Of a pot of brewed coffee;
Ah I love it oh so well.
In my penguin jimmies
And fluffy duck slips;
I stagger to the kitchen,
Past the rubbish bin tip.
Opening the blind up,
I get one hell of a fright;
Practically blinded by the sunlight.
I take out my daffy cup,
And give it a quick wipe.
Filling it with the steaming brew,
Can’t half tell I was up half the night.
And with cup in hand,
I return to where I dwell;
In front of the computer screen,
For I have another story to tell.
This is the life of a writer,
To have her liquid fuel,
For there is nothing like a coffee;
To kick my morning mule.
