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The alarm rings at five. At first, I balk

Sleep I try, but I taste like chalk

Maybe too little cabbage the night before

Head spinning like a dumb carousel, around once more

Do I rise? Do I rest? Do I have a quest?

I look to the constellations, but in the end ask my guest

She beckons me to eat and, “Turn on some Bach.”

But as I scurry toward the kitchen, I smell a shock

My tuna can sits open! But my stomach begins to roar

This pungent delicacy of white albacore.

Open the windows, a conundrum addressed

All the neighbors know what I eat best!