It's not Friday and that has already put a damper on whatever day this is.

Friday is the holy grail, the handrail I hold onto.

I need a holiday, I need to get as far away from whatever day this
is and do nothing in particular.

other than that and assuming the world is still roundish and hasn't gone flat, I'm okay.

could do with another coffee though.

Good King Useless
went without
and now his wife is pregnant,

here I'll pause for Santa Claus,
locked up for a year,
convicted by Westminster court
of
smuggling gifts and bringing cheer.

Dickens had it right, you know,
Marlowe and his groaning,
take your belt in one more notch
and quit with all that moaning.

The thing that keeps me going
is knowing that the end will soon be coming
and by the end, I mean the weekend,

Monday to Friday
is only a disappointment sent
to bother me.

Being a cast out
he casts out
becomes a castaway,

eating a fish a day
makes you brainy
or so they say,
or wet
if you're fishing in the rain
without an umbrella.

Sinking underneath the weight of his sombrero
snorting coke to raise the tempo
watching the tide go out
come in
go out
wondering about things as one would.

Only twelve more working days
which is
eighty four more working hours,
but
another twelve more times to listen to
the early morning chimes,

I'll bust my nuts or bust my guts but I'll manage to make it
and then we'll see,
we usually do.