Monday heralds the mundanity of
A life caught in chasing bread and butter
Tuesday rolls up its sleeves for Wednesday
betwixt things insipid and those that matter

Thursday coughs and drags on its feet
With cluttered brains, begging for air
Friday comes after an aeon of a week
Tell-tale faces, of the buttery crosses they bear

At long last, Saturday dawns sunny and crisp
Irony-ing out the creases in an easy hammock
I’m going to spend it like it’s a Sunday
Before the real Sunday retires too soon, pulling up its socks

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