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The Week



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


Sunday’s quite right
If not for the coming days that are tight
I’m happy like the government
Like when it waits for the freebies from the king to spend
Even more so for I’d not have to pretend to work and live
As if it makes sense to work to live or just in living at all
Tho’ it all does, when you love and are loved regardless of the days

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


Ever the specific colour persists on a Monday
Amongst the greens and violets the blues betray
Overrated but still it has one semblance
With the Hindus and Christians that are up the natives’ arses
With the country that has its name written on glasses
Mondays our masters go whore-hunting, they go arse-hunting
And the scums are scattering all over the bloody town

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


Tuesday makes the two for the week
With nothing to look back nor forward
Ditto, the police and the armies and the rebels live on
Guns and ammunition have made up for all our emptiness
Yet life goes on, with or without the meaning
No one cares as long as weekends arrive with unasked promptness
Everybody hears the crooner sings Tuesday’s Dead

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


And some foreign strangers hum Wednesday’s Child is full of woe
It could have been a typo, it could have The Town’s Child
It’s midweek and for long the government has shut down the schools
That’s how on and off it fights with the evil and the cruel
And I worry about the fuel that are available so scarce
Not that I want to go to work Wednesday but to scarify the rust
If only this ended, there’re only two days to the weekend

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


Thursday it’s time to look upon the approaching holidays
Sans hate that them the hillspeople look down on the valley
Sans discourtesy that them the valleypeople flaunt to the hills
Not even in weeks and months and years it will make sense
Like seeking for the meaning of our existence
Like the police and more police protecting democracy
And the wise man retells we should live in the moment

        Fellows of the land
        unite, you got nothing to
        lose, but your Fridays.


Everything’s quiet Friday
Perhaps the people have gone, getting ready
To add one more meaning to the absurdity
And the orators amongst us will preach more than argue
The blues are gone a long time go — do have some hope to chew
When it’s clear, no Friday or Monday
None saves us from killing and robbery and stupidity

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


And it’s become less clouded on Saturday
Be a part of the whole to understand fully
When reason does not go beyond our own interpretations
Still gods can learn from the oneness of Saturday nights
No matter we live in a slum or are drowned in scum
The week ends but life’s standing just around the corner
No wonder there’s always a rush in the liquor store Saturday

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Other weekly rolls:
Shoot at Sight in a Week
From the Notes of Surreal Conversations on Weekdays
Hapta Haiku
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