Monday Morning, full of dread, we pray
the postman few new bills will bring our way:
on wishing well of wishful thinking play
bust more than boom spells doom that's here to stay
Tuesday brings some more scored, still we wait
while writing verses making light of weight:
yet La Fontaine in fable mocks the gait
of dancing cricket's woe, repayments late.
Wednesday wears on, wilts, no more to bloom,
while wor[l]ds spin out till they themselves entomb.
From baillifs at the door naught can restore
the poor to former glories of full store.
Thursday's thunder mocks the toiling throng,
its passing joys are sold short for a song:
Slight thanks from banks for custom past and long
when, overdrawn, wrung hands land warning strong.
Friday freedom offers brief relief
with weekend worry, working week sums grief:
no fish, no dish, no pendants signed Van Cleef,
but fly-by-night departure like a thief.
Saturday dream theme sings of sweet reward
from toil and trouble free, spare cash to hoard:
life's lottery no gains shows on record,
when all is said and done, no bed and board.
Sunday is a pillow-time between
the bills to come and those, unpaid, that lien
let doomed foreclosure hang upon the scene:
'forgiveness is divine'? - no pardon's seen!
Frustration, stress, in context self-destruct,
leave life as from which no thorns are plucked.