Free college is nice
But some don’t want it.
Free healthcare is grand
But some people taunt it.
If we want to please
The entire USA
Pass a law that makes
Every day Saturday!
Tag Archives: Weekends
Zero Weddings, A Funeral, And A Reasonable Question
This evening we sit
In memory of
A weekend that
We came to love.
‘Twas two days long,
Five days too short.
Why’s there no satisfying
Single player sport?
Filed under Poems
Logic, American Dream Style
Monday through Friday
My heart’s only dread
Is that midmorning song
That says “get out of bed.”
Yet come days of Satur
And as well days of Sun
My heart sings in the morning
‘Til the day is all done.
For when clocks of alarm
Cracks serenity’s hold
And says “put on your clothes
“And go do what you’re told”
My vigor and pep
Aren’t what they used to be
Like when I was a child
And still blissfully free.
When instead of alarms
To the sun I awaken
And instead of my job
I get pancakes and bacon
My bliss flows more freely
And I feel stronger.
From now on I’ll work weekends
And be miserable longer.
Filed under Poems
One Quiet Night
Some days you don’t have the blues.
Some days you don’t watch the news.
On days like these, at least for me,
It’s tough to write a travesty.
Filed under Poems
#Weekends
#ThatMomentYouMustWritePoems
#ButWriteHashtagsInstead
#CauseItsThreeOClockOnSaturday
#AndYou’reStillHappilyInBed
Filed under Poems
Holiday
I’m riding my bike on the beach
Eating the pit of a peach
As dolphins teach my dog
To critique pricey perfumes.
My face is bright with joy
And the salt wind in my hair
Makes me wonder as I pedal
“What was in those mushrooms?”
Filed under Poems
What Is A Sunday?
if Monday was productive
It would be Tuesday instead.
If Tuesday were called “Hump day”
Maybe we’d want to get out of bed.
If the end was in sight on Wednesday
We would enjoy it more.
If after Thursday was a weekend
It would not be such a snore.
Saturday’s a Friday
During which we needn’t work,
But Sunday is what Saturday
Would be if it were a jerk.
On Sunday we do nothing
Just like on Saturday,
Except our nothing is interrupted
By our freedom sneaking away.
We’re filled to our proverbial brim
With end-of-weekend anxiety.
That is what a Sunday is,
Or maybe that’s just me.
Filed under Poems
