HoliDaze

April, May and June,

Son is on the moon.

Its that time of the year again,

When getting up in the morning is not a pain.

Son is up with the lark,

Though my mornings (which begin at 5 a.m.) are a bit stark.

I wake up to the sound of a basketball,

Hitting the wall.

Its holidaze he says,

To my sleepy, laconic gaze.

One hour later,

It gets no better.

The house looks like a war zone,

Legos strewn and toys dismembered and torn.

The sound is magnified,

The TV volume amplified,

I see his pals running hither and thither,

While I dither.

The last I saw a game of pillow fight was on,

I escaped to pen my feelings in full form.

Its bed time finally,

Though he just informed me with glee.

Its Sunday tomorrow,

Your watch with the alarm I shall borrow.

Ill get up at 5,

And take a long jog to revive.

Sigh! Sunday and 5?

Its like these kids connive.

To make the moms feel blazed,

Every HoliDaze.