Will September ever come?
I'm just about out of rum.
Get me, give me, whine, whine, whine,
my kingdom for some gags and twine.
Stinking Legos bruise my feet
while I sweat displeasure in blistering heat.
Breakfast just finished, time to start lunch
I'm a tipless waitress for a rowdy bunch.
He said, she said, assaults my ears
as I bandage a scrape and welcome their peers.
Wii games and bodies litter the floor,
clouds roll in, oh please don't pour.
Outside is far better than in,
three blaring TVs make an awful din.
Beds don't stay made, bathroom's a mess,
that stuff on the carpet is anyone's guess.
I stare at the calendar adorned with flowers,
count the days and then the hours
'til domestic bliss is restored
by a decree from the wonderful Board.
The rum won't last, this I know.
I still have seven weeks to go.



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