On a Sunday morning after heavy drinking,

I begin regretting everything I've written.

Don't you get me wrong, it wasn't all pinchbeck.

I just had two too many, haven't we all done that before?

Not to get too downtrodden, but really what's the point

In taking baby steps, let's just jump to our death.

That would be so romantic, appeal to the early teens

And some who should know better, and some who've written better before.

But it's hard to see the future coming strong

When the life you've led thus far is half as long

As the life you thought you'd lead would be by now

On a Sunday morning thought like this are allowed

It's an inauspicious, but adequate beginning

Now matter how good you're doing, others are probably winning.

Never write songs for singing, when you could write books for reading

So your audience can put you down whenever they want.