Listen to poem:
Sabbath
His nails have dug into his palms;
they do that kind of thing.
It's only when he's hearing psalms,
and hearing others sing.
"Oh why, dear God?" he says on Sunday,
knowing there's no lord.
"I do so wish to get to Monday,
feel no longer bored."
Yet he will know, when starting Monday,
working now for six,
the seventh day will be a Sunday -
moods are such a mix.
He therefore holds no sabbath dear
(though nails have pierced the palms);
he's far from cheer, and feels the fear
he'll hear those bloody psalms.
(Oct 2022)
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