The Maid of the Week

By Chris Commodore © 2024

What will life be remembered for?
Perhaps humdrum and chit-chat,
I doubt anything more.
On Sundays I get up and go to church,
And sit and doze upon the lurch.

On Monday, I must go to work.
On Tuesday, I must go to work.
On Wednesday, I must go to work.
On Thursday, I must go to work.
On Friday, I must go to work.
And sometimes on Saturdays,
Sundays as well,
To work I must go at the teasing bell.

On Saturdays must go to town,
Trek all around wearing a frown,
Buy some groceries, pay a bill,
Maid on the run, no time for a meal.
Pick up clean laundry, drop off the soiled;
Out in the hot sun, my blood boiled.
Pause in the shade; watch the sun fade.
More errands, bills paid, groceries made
Now to get home before it’s too late,
Not that there’s reason for leisure or date.

Just in fear of the rain that always brings pain
And the preacher’s a-chirping, it’s Sunday again;
It’s Sunday again; I must go to church,
To sit and doze upon the lurch
What will I be remembered for?
The curfew, the bell, at a quarter past four.
On Monday and Tuesday,
And Wednesday and Thursday,
On Friday and Saturday,
The round-about way.