I like my Sundays,
most of all the afternoons.
When the same visitors
come around four,
Mr. Glen Fittock, suit and tie
a Gentleman named Jack
who lives near the racoons,
we sit around at first
and have some pie,
the wife then asks
'who'd like some more? ',
she has this little bitty knack
to overlook a growing thirst
and does not recognise our stoic masks,
until the word is uttered, 'glasses',
and then the three of us,
and sometimes more,
sit on our civil asses,
don't make a fuss
perhaps, (at least it's what I think)
the only way one can ignore
the world as such, with all its faults
is, in good company sit back and drink
be it the sour mash or malt.

Herbert Nehrlich

http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/sunday-afternoons-2/