I love breathing on a sunday morning,
When bird whistles are heared,
And the joy of life is come,
To unveil it's fruit to my kidful life.

To put a new shining fabric,
And not my decasting rags,
And go with some offerings,
When diverted to our bellies.

Sunday's morning smells lovely,
As steams from pits fill the air,
From all distant corners of home,
For a fabulous delicacy.

Sunday, your fruits are sweet,
And not of Saturday's wroth.