Morning

I always hate the morning best
in the best way you can hate something
I wait for it to pass and rest
In its grave till the morrow’s morning.

I wonder when it comes again
Every time a sad surprise
You’d think I’d know its schedule
And be more quiet when I rise.

But every morning it comes again
And every morning I wish its death
But days just never start at noon
Despite what’s said under your breath.

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