An ode to brunch

Though in combat zone am I,
My place is tranquil, I cannot lie.
To say it's harsh conditions here,
Would be a fib to tell I fear.

How to express my simple joy,
For what it takes to please this boy.
I wake on Sunday mornings late,
And talk of delicious things I ate.

Not quite breakfast and not quote lunch,
What the sophisticated love to call "brunch".
That magic point of morning time,
Not early or late, but just sublime.

No matter, mimosas, I have none,
It doesn't dampen one bit my fun.
And food while not a gourmet feast,
Is good enough to feed the beast.

Strawberry, how art thee divine,
Though not yet ripe you still are fine.
Pineapple sweet oh tropical fruit,
I load my plate with edible loot.

All the ingredients my bowl I fill,
Then take it to the omelet grill.
My order I give the foreign man,
Who works for us in Afghanistan.

Bacon, tomatoes, and mushrooms make,
A tasty omelet for me to partake.
I grab my cereal, some milk, and juice.
Too much of this and my pants aren't loose.

The Stars and Stripes I read all through,
Browsing the news, sports, and comics too.
Ann Landers great advice you give,
And horoscope, my life I live.

I sit and think my lot in life,
And how to fix this country's strife.
And how I'd like to sit and stay,
It's after noon; must start my day.

More to follow.