Hapta Haiku

On Sunday I sing
All the songs of liberty;
The chains of weekdays.

On Mondays I have
Over-rated morning blues
What's the day's schedule.

He sings Tuesday's dead
He changes his faith; his folks;
American drones.

Midlife crisis' real
Wednesdays lay bare to show
Lives and weeks don't blend.

He fasts on Thursdays;
The gods, though, come every day.
Dieting and prayers.

Workers of the world
unite, you got nothing to
lose, but your Fridays.

Saturday nights sneer
For all the things you have done;
Chirps, peeping weekdays.



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