The day that flies the fastest has to be Sunday,
What makes this particular morning worse,
Is a radiating shoulder blade pain, like an excruciating curse,
I just want to sleep,
Go back into my slumber, nice and deep,
Why do the weekends fly?
In my bed, I want to lie,
Sleeping all day and night,
With no work in sight,
Perhaps I should,
For another two hours, I really should,
I'll wake up less crabby,
And hopefully feel far from shabby.
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