In an air conditioned office,
I sit all alone on a Sunday.
With demands beyond the suffice,
Sunday is no longer a fun day.
The gentle noise of the door,
The hurrying foot steps on the floor.
Life seems to be a bore,
Hopefully, looking for a distant shore.
There is no one but me,
Waiting for an opportunity to flee.
Being Sunday no 10 AM tea,
None for company, only me and me.
Days of struggle,
With a volley of tasks to juggle.
Deep inside a frown and a giggle,
To soothe me a note from my inner bugle.
OFFICIALLY SUNDAY
