On Judgment Day in the morning early

I shall get up morose and surly.

I always do, and the Day of days

Will be just too late to change my ways.

Work after breakfast all my life

Has soured my love of human strife,

And I get disgruntled even more

If ever I have to work before.

What I'm afraid of, I'll admit,

Is not the mouth of the bottomless pit,

But that heaven's gate will open up

Before I've emptied my coffee cup.

Well, I won't come out to climb to heaven

At any such hour as half past seven.

I won't be hurried. I won't be hauled.

And I won't be loudly trumpet-called.

For anything like beatitude

At breakfast-time I'm not in the mood,

And that holds good, I'd like to say,

From now till the crack of Judgment Day.