On Sunday evening, thoughts turn to Monday,
That fun day when I turn into a slave
And, underslept, tiptoe at the first ray
To run the tap, splash face - a micro-bathe -
Then drink juice, exit light, enter their cave:
Soul-shrinking charade where I’m rarely made
To think; key-pushing. Yet, the Net will save
Me: link and lifeline; fears of sinking fade;
A surfin’ safari; suff’rer repaid.
They’re starvin’ me of time for basic pay.
I’m duckin,’ divin’ - ain’t misbehavin’ -
I’m savin’ all my love for when the shade
So wondrously tolls for the working day,
And dunderheads are done, and you I crave.
Sun 25 Mar 2007
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