Gibberish for a Sunday morning

I don't want to talk about NOLA, I don't want to talk about Rehnquist,
It's Sunday, the day of connecting to spirit, or hangover nursage.
It's cool, breezy and crispily autumnal this morning,
In the village, sweaty men still dance.
Round noon, you can see them coming out of the afterhours,
Large pupiled, and sweaty-sexy smelling.
It's a holiday weekend, so many of them will be tourists,
Attracted to this place of Easily Havable Sex,
But the locals are the hottest.

I don't want to talk about NOLA, I don't want to talk about Rehnquist,
It's my day to ponder and putter.
I'll take the dog for a walk,
I'll get a Blizzard from Dairy Queen, blog a bit of nonsense.
The kids upstairs will frolic and stomp,
And Serge will get rankled,
But I like the sound of children playing,
And remembering the fun I used to have.
I'm going to eat a popsicle with them later today,
And get it all over my face, staining it purple.
Sundays are the funnest.