If Only The World Was Run By Monks

Now come along, Angry Harry.

It's 4.30, and it's time to get up.

Time to get up and recite your six hours of prayers before ploughing those enormous fields with a fork and spoon.

Then it's prayer time - yet again - before you get your hands on a tiny bowl of that huge mountain of cold gruel that you ground up yesterday with your bare feet while singing hymns.

And for goodness sake, please cheer up! You've got a whole morning off work to look forward to; albeit some time next year.

And then there's the sun in the morning and the moon at night to both wonder at and behold while you build those stone walls.

What more d'ya want?

And if your heart remains pure and your thoughts remain wholesome throughout the whole of this precious lifetime of yours, then there might even be more pleasures a-coming your way; especially when you are dead - when thar'll be a reckonin'.

So, please get up, get up. And rejoice in the new day.

And also thank the good lord and the new wonders of medicine for giving you a life expectancy of some 500 more years in which to dwell in this most excellent and holy of monasteries.

Rejoice. Rejoice. Let us now fall to our knees and pray solidly for at least a few days, lest we succumb to the devil's temptation by stealing an hour or two of wicked sleep.

Because remember: Sleep is nothing but theft. Pleasure is nothing but sin. And the mere thought of either will lead to your very soul being damned for eternity.

Plus a day!

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