Sonnet 9

Alarm clocks.

Quell the swell of my temper whence i wake,
for tis not my mandate that i do rise.

It is the piercing, ringing mobile quake,
that boasts the cause of mine now open eyes.

Like a hip smack on a desk's jutting pier;
too much cinnamon clinging to the bun.
Tis the thought of a plank's sudden splinter,
"Oh christ it seems my day has begun".

Alas, life calls "duty" in early hours,
and our coffees must be paid by some means.
The endless slumber's despised costly dour,
is worth it for the fleeting 'snooze' it seems.

Despite the calamitous wake up call,
The joys of progress are well worth the crawl.