The Day Of Rest (Poetry)

It’s Sunday, blesséd Sunday
dozing godless lie abed at ease
as sunlight warms indifferent trees
while still-believing holy types
get in their cars or on their bikes
to wend their dutiful slow way
to church to sing and kneel and pray

Noworkday, lazy shirkday
read the papers, think about the past
and all those plans that didn’t last
decide there’s little that’s worthwhile
so few things now to raise a smile
it’s doom and gloom as prices soar
the rich get fat just as before

It’s Sunday, not-much-on-day
but tomorrow it will start again
the spinning wheel that dulls the brain
the clock that rules and coldly drives
so many million boring lives
the thought’s enough to make you weep
best drink your tea, go back to sleep