Written by: Milton Toran

four o' clock in the morning,
i'm feeling like a slob;
the alarm says that i must go,
to face this horrid job!

the weekend's all a tease,
just when i'm good and lax;
monday beheads my shallow pride,
like an executioner's axe!

my eyes are swollen crusty,
my breath's a putrid stench;
saliva soaks a beaten pillow,
my energy lies in a trench!

i dread each day of monday,
as i drag myself to the shower;
my nerves are like an itchy rash,
my attitude's vague and sour!

out the door i go,
to battle a huddled freeway;
monday is just the beginning,
where in the hell is friday?!!