The weekend stretches out
like a loaf of fresh baked bread.
I want to cut myself a slice but
I'm poorly,
tucked up in my bed.
Life isn't fair
even when I'm in there,
I should get well and tell life
to go to hell.
I received a letter
from the doctor,
it said
'you're better,
back to work'
The doc's a berk.
In spite of it all
I think I will fall and
taste Saturday night,
take a slice from the Sunday and
drift back slowly
into
Monday
where the week stretches out and
I'll wonder what the weekend was
all about.
Oct 17, 2014
Oct 17, 2014 at 5:58 AM UTC
The weekend stretches out
like a loaf of fresh baked bread.
I want to cut myself a slice but
I'm poorly,
tucked up in my bed.
Life isn't fair
even when I'm in there,
I should get well and tell life
to go to hell.
I received a letter
from the doctor,
it said
'you're better,
back to work'
The doc's a berk.
In spite of it all
I think I will fall and
taste Saturday night,
take a slice from the Sunday and
drift back slowly
into
Monday
where the week stretches out and
I'll wonder what the weekend was
all about.
Request permission to use this poem