Ritz night shift

I am dreaming of a lush Sussex landscape
wrapped around the early morning's mist.
The river nearby would bend through
the capricious veins of this land.
I smell a lofty English breakfast brought in
on a silver platter by a  curvacious maid.
And a distant bell is echoing in my ears:
A disgruntled client tapping at my reception desk's bell
to complain about a maid in the corridor
singing out loud a Verdi aria with a shrill voice
at half past five in the morning.