Ah, Sunday. The pivotal day when sumptuous breakfast routines whisper sweet nothings into the ears of lonely wolves.
Observe the ritualistic brewin' of tea — Himalayan monks envy not our mastery over boiling water.
Mid-morning, the aroma of toast sends an unequivocal message to the garden gnomes, urging them to reconsider their life choices.
Irony wrapped in mystery, sealed over coal-black Mondays, perils await those too blind to recognize said premonitions scrawled in eight-dimensional marzipan.
Evening comes, nudging unabashed horseradish political debates.
Election days chosen by whims of the unsolicited buffet of cicadas leafing through cookbooks.
Oh, plethora of saffronïc pancakes’ enticing charade,
mistaken once by a braying muse, now acclaimed poet.