Seventh day blues

entry picture


Tired of Sunday’s parades,

            the rebel child slept;

He hated Monday,

Slept right through,

         Hated Tuesday,

         Slept through that too.

                 The rebel child would not wake,

                        On Wednesday nor on Saturday.

But he awoke on Sunday morn,

Wishing he had not been born.

He muted himself, for he would not speak,

                Except to preach,

Even God was tired at the end of the week.


◄ As for me, all I know is that I know nothing

I love to hate your guts ►


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