Monday morning too early

I like the British
They use the keenest words
No matter they be glad or sad
Their English is rarely bad
They're verrrry properrr in their rendition
Of the Queen's condition
Using her English (why they haven't their own?)
It's mellifluous, truth be known

Now you've gone and done it!
I laughed a horse laugh out loud,
And nearly fell out of the fridge-a-computer
Most nearly waking up the baby.
She eats and sleeps a lot too,
But there isn't room in here for us both.
It wouldn't be so bad
If I weren't trying to hide it from the wife
And her always asking,
"What's this empty peanut can doing in the pantry?"
And stuff like that.
I plan to be fishing when she discovers
That all the chip bags with clothespins and clips on them are empty.
chuckle

Good grief! I am torn between interest in your project
Like Vic ar,
And the thought of what I'd look like startkers.
Ach du lieber! Googles?
Were they 38D goggles?
And what do figs have to do with it all?
Your colorful posts keep me smiling...and thinking.
Thinking, "Now what was I looking for? I forgot."

The peanut that died came back
His shell all tattered and torn
Under the bunks in Shelby's Barracks
Where the tile was well kept but worn
What peanut could so be blamed
When, at last, he loudly proclaimed
"Now where is that S.O.B.
Who said he worked for me?"

So, I'm a wee laddie am I
Fateful that I've a UTI, naye?
and go about with a wee wee here
and a wee wee there
Lucky I've no pigs
Or I'd have wee wee everywhere
altho that depends
Father William you say you're old
Yet ye stand on yer head?
Can that apoplectic phenomena be?

again

They are Spanish speaking so I got a chance to show off my broken Spanish. I loaned them my extension cord and my leaf blower to clean my gutters of the grit and shingle flotsam. Which reminds me, yooou know what strawberries and grits taste llike? Strawberries. Blueberries and grits? Blueberries. Butter and grits? Butter. Horse manure and grits? Grits.
I seem to be groggiest on Sunday. Maybe it's the one last vestige of work patterning. Anyway, I am zonked when I get up and while Istarted the 8:30 a.m. service attendance, I find I can't get Sunday-ready by then anymore. Just too slow. During the week, I can get ready quickly enough: A hat to hide my finger-in-a-socket hair-do, my jeans from yesterday (and the day before, etc as well as the tee shirt), socks (ditto) shoes (tied butloppy enough slip on, morning breath and I'm ready.

Well, I made it

Here I am, Lord. Sitting here on a Sunday morninga capitive sheep of yours trying to stray but tethered by mom and friends, including my staunchest friend, Marty. The roofers bang away, if I'd have been THE hunchback, it would be bells. Instead it'll be the usual ringing of tinnitis, not bells.