Can’t Trust That Decade

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.

Friday Eve

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.