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Enter Poem or Quote (Required)Required "Ode to Feck Off Friday" (Folk | Melancholic | ABAB Rhyme Scheme) (Inspired by a drizzly Dublin pub, a Drake-esque croon, Tila’s raw edge, and a longing for greasy grace) The kettle hums a lonesome tune, Click, the light goes on, I burn the toast, I spill the spoon — Another week is gone. The screen glows gold with messages, “Just one quick call,” they plead, But my boots are laced for greener finesse, And my soul’s in need of speed. So feck off, Monday, with your grind, And Tuesday, full of lies, Wednesday, breakin’ heart and mind — Thursday, you can choke on “tries.” Oh, but Friday… Friday’s the crack in the ceiling light, A whisper through the rain, When I trade my tie for cigarette smoke, And kiss the 5:03 train. I walk past the office, past the suits, Past dreams I used to chase, Down to the corner, where the neon fruits Still glow with some old grace. And there it is — Papadias’ sign, A flickerin’ red and blue, Like a siren song in olive oil and rye, One slice meant for two… (…but I eat it all, like I always do.) A pint of black, half-spilt, half-sipped, On a chipped Formica throne, While the jukebox sings of love that slipped And debts I’ve long outgrown. The barman nods — he knows my name, Not “sir,” not “manager,” Just “You again?” — a gentle flame, The only peace I earn. So here’s to all the weeks I’ve lost, To bosses, bills, and pride, To promises I paid at cost — And Friday, where I hide. Oh, Feck Off Friday, my rebel saint, You don’t fix a thing, it’s true, But for one night, I can disbelieve the weight, And dream the world ain’t cruel. Just grease-stained fingers, streetlight glow, A cold one by my side, And the ghost of someone I used to know Still waitin’… just outside. So when the world says “Hustle! Rise!” I whisper low and slow — “Feck off,” beneath these Dublin skies, “It’s Friday. Let me go.” // End on a fading hum, like a distant train or a vinyl run-out groove. The last bite of pizza long gone. The pint, almost.
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