Between Our Fridays and Our Sundays

Between our Fridays and our Sundays some pine For eternity to shield them from the work week forever For Eden's pronouncement drag the soul through time A rag to labor with soiled contempt of hands Wiped on them, and a rude mark on their face The factory floor, the office, the field make them shudder Their soul without esteem pressed into littered mud Yet each weekend the sun runs quicker it seems And the clock like a whip Pulls away families, friends, leaving the desolate hunger That make us toil without being filled. Between our Fridays and our Sundays we see clearly The barren repose of earth's ambition And these days there is nothing there for tomorrow No pensions, nor savings, only wrinkling toil The ancient slant against which the masses toil. And here and there There is no dream of revolution The far satellites watches with such premonitions Streaming masses shuttled in all direction Confused as the ant disturbed while ascending its mound Piling up to climb down Between our Fridays and our Sundays I pine too But for the eclipse of time That keeps us like the poles apart With mounds of impatience steepling my heart.