It's 7 A.M. and the sun says, "Surprise!
I'm here once again to push you out of bed."
I crawl out reluctantly, rubbing my eyes,
Already angry and half drenched in sweat.
Not even awake but I'm starting to smell.
This is no good morning; this morning is hell.
I stumble about – it's so bright I can't see.
My things simply aren't where I know they should be.
I've tripped a few times and I just skinned my knee.
Why must all the furniture bump into me?
Great, dropped my toothbrush. Well, isn't this swell?
What is a good morning? All mornings are hell.
But somehow I plod through it all in a daze
Until I take one little sip from a mug
And like every other day, I'm still amazed
At how this coffee is so much like a hug
The universe sends you to make you feel whole,
To give your day meaning by touching your soul.
Bitter and sweet, maybe just a tad sour,
It fills my senses, it fills me with power
The way I have always trusted that it would,
And suddenly this hellish morning is... good better.
So, if you must say good morning to me,
Make sure it comes with a mug of coffee.
