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Dave Bonta
looking over papers
my gaze is as lost
as a lost foot
on a road like a held tongue
a man can sit so long
he is a stranger to the light
show me a broadside
ready to burn down Monday
find me an F U C K
those four letters born in a whip
In the fleeting moments that fall
In between fleeing from one task to another
At the back of my mind, desparate, I wonder
How to freeze Time to an eternal Sunday!
The day I like the least is Sunday,
And after that, I don't like Monday,
And after that, I don't care whose day
Tuesday is — I don't like Tuesday,
And after that, let other men say,
"Pooh," and "Bah" — I don't like Wednesday,
And after that, my very worse day
Is — in short, I don't like Thursday,
And after that, my evil-eye day
Is — the fact's, — I don't like Friday,
And after that, I won't grow fatter, say.
Because they have a day called Saturday —
But the day I like the least is Sunday,
And after that, I don't like Monday,
And after that, I don't care whose day
Tuesday is, I don't like Tuesday,