Sundays
Sundays
Every Sunday morning we’d be up and washed and dressed,
Not in our everyday “playing out” clothes, but in our Sunday best.
We’d be on our best behaviour too, a Sunday golden rule,
Then Mum and Dad would duly send us off to Sunday School.
We’d sing some hymns and say some prayers and listen to a story,
A moral tale to make us good and follow in God’s glory.
But best of all, when homeward bound with a tanner for some treats
We’d spend it in the corner shop on the tray of penny sweets.
Running home, playing tig, chasing home the winner,
Welcomed back to the savoury whiff of homemade Sunday Dinner.
We’d listen to the wireless, The Goons and Round The Horn,
Then Sunday night was bath night, spick and span for Monday morn.
Now Sunday’s lost its magic, it’s just another shopping day,
Sunday dinner’s now a drive through you can pick up on the way.
Our modern world keeps moving on and it will change again,
But it’s nice to reminisce about the old days now and then.
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