The Mechanical Man

Sundays I wear my sunflower socks
Bright and brilliant as my beer belly does,
Mondays I wear my maroon moccasin
With a desire to dazzle the dilly-dally life though uncertain,
Tuesdays I’m almost out of option
Still I do don my dresses that I assume as drab,
Wednesdays I wear a wenge sweater this winter;
Thursdays and Fridays
I might as well try for more attire.

But the Sundays have gone insane
The Thursdays are aping the Mondays,
The Fridays are becoming frightening.

For on weekends it’s all written on the wall
The Saturdays are absurd, just anticipating Sundays,
And the sunflower socks are in suspense
All set to strike,
The moccasin minds all the Mondays
Like the days are distinct
Like all the lacklustre Tuesdays so listless
And I suffer from all the similar Sundays,
These unwavering weekdays and weekends.

The Mondays are diverse only on unseen calendars
The Tuesdays are merely a testimony
—The same days, the same weeks, the same months.