Monday Morning, full of dread, we pray <br />the postman no new bills will bring our way. <br /> <br />Tuesday brings no more, and still we wait <br />while writing verses making light of weight. <br /> <br />Wednesday wears on, wilts, no more to bloom, <br />while wor[l]ds spin out till they themselves entomb. <br /> <br />Thursday's thunder mocks the toiling throng, <br />its joys as passing as its hours are long. <br /> <br />Friday freedom offers those who, tired, <br />for weekends long when, working week expired, <br /> <br />they taste on Saturday the just reward <br />of toil and trouble, free from all discord. <br /> <br />Sunday is a pillow-time between <br />the week to come and that which has just been. <br /> <br />(26 October 1991)<br /><br />Jonathan ROBIN<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/daily-couplets-0466-not-after-mark-twain-those-annual-bills/
