Out Of Sorts

The toast was not burnt I swear.

The cream was fresh and chilled.

The rosè was a vintage fine.

And no goblets were broke or spilled.

Somehow I just woke grumpy.

From my king size goose down bed.

I probably owe apologies.

For something or other I said.

Sometimes there’s no reason.

For my less than kind retorts.

It doesn’t mean that I don’t love or care.

It just means I’m out of sorts.

Dennis Mantin

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