The best time of the day is in the morning when I've left my dreams and I'm barely awake

and I imagine that beside me there's be bottles of champagne or at least a glass of saké

or that a cheque for a million pounds has dropped through my letter box

or that my clothes are freshly ironed and the holes have vanished from all my socks

or that a group of angels are round the table eating marshmallows for breakfast

or that I wrote a novel while I slept and it's already number one in the best seller list

or that it's my birthday again and all the presents are wrapped and topped with shiny bows

or that I've a date at the Proms with the Philharmonic behind me and I'm singing solo

or that I'll touch everything with kindness and see everything through impossible eyes

or that suddenly I'll know anything and everything including all the whens and whys

or that outside the weather will be swathed in mystery yet gentle and smooth-skinned

or that there'll be a note excusing me from life's unpleasant tasks and of course oblivion

or that I'll have real teeth and my ears will be pure with the grace of running water

or that the dog has fetched the paper and there's my smiling photo on the front cover

or that slugs and snails will jump over the fence with their home-made picnic hampers

or that I know hidden in a tuna sandwich how many grains of sand fill any container

or that there are poets undressed, praising another day in the back garden and laughing

or that I'm sitting with the poets with a cup of coffee in my hand and I'm also laughing

or that I'm freed from my everyday self and commune with the dead Like Dionysus

or that people, animals, Gaia and other forms of life are no longer stuck in their mess.