Mundane, mundane Monday

You just won’t stop following Sunday

She runs from you, and so she should 

Stalking her will do no good

Saturday is her husband, still

They walk hand in hand, and always will

You are hated, abhorred, reviled

For it is you who brings death to their child

Little Weekend, who lives too brief

And to a world’s eternal grief

Dies as you make your return

You who sets the phoenix to burn

So we go back, to work and woe

Forced by you, our ancient foe

A new week is finally dawning

And so begins our Monday mourning