Mondays last a long, long time.
I’m thirty hours into mine
And still have twelve or so remaining.
(I flunked math, but aced complaining.)
It seems to me the Twenties are afraid.
They had a chance to make themselves stand out
By rendering our work weeks un-Mondayed
And exit every weekend sans a pout,
But though the opportunity was ripe
For harvesting, the chicken Twenties choked,
And all our hope was just a hunt for snipe.
They ought to have their calendar revoked.
It’s possible they’ll yet redeem themselves,
Rise up courageous, finish with a roar,
And crank those scales of 1-to-10 to 12s
And teach me not to doubt them anymore,
But Monday happened, and it wasn’t great.
Unless this was the last one, it’s too late.
On Thursday night it’s Friday Eve!
And all adults who still believe
In weekends know that when they wake
There’s only one more day to fake
Enthusiasm for their jobs
Before they get to be the slobs
That lurk beneath the work veneer,
The ones who’d rather nurse a beer
While watching millionaires play sports
Than churn out TPS reports,
But as you celebrate, fair warning:
Three days left till Monday morning.
Mondays are God’s way
Of saying, “You did your best.
Now, try it again.”
Netflix jobs are sweet
You can sleep till Thursday night
Then binge the whole week
Some Mondays go on forever;
Others simply go. No clever
Observation: I’m just saying,
Guessing which way they’ll be laying
When the torn-off pages fall’s
An unproductive game. That’s all.
A beautiful day
Partly taken away
As some temporal power
Excluded one hour
Shortchanging our Sunday.
We’ll pay for it Monday.