It's that great spring Sunday when the clocks go
Forward one hour, and evening light extends
Its rays into each corner, when shadow
Is diminished, and optimism spends
Its saved-up hoard. Meanwhile, new hope banks lend
Like crazy, whether we deserve or not
The clouds retreat and coldness goes to ground
T-shirts suffice, even shorts. It seems hot
To sun-starved Brits, rediscovering the plot
Bye bye golden disc, until tomorrow
You're sinking now, tired boy at the day's end
It would be fun down at the Old Pint Pot
Or some pub with somebody, don't know who
But now's the time for ME, and not for friends
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