I wake before noon,
Not a moment too soon.
I've slept for ten hours—far gone is the moon.
To the kitchen I fly,
To breakfast on pie,
If pie were narcotic, by now I'd be high.
When I'm ready to pop,
To the keyboard I hop,
To play Christmas tunes until someone says "stop!"
No one stops me at all,
So I deck the hall,
With carols proclaiming the death-bed of fall.
While I tickle the keys,
Here's my sister, and she's
Come to tell me of spacemen with cryptic disease.
Once she's done, I'm away,
Then remember today
I must write three papers—oh hip hip, hooray!
This is my living,
Day-after-Thanksgiving,
With bits of randomness through my brain sieving.
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