it’s Saturday morning, ablaze in all its glory the day’s laid out before me... rise and shine at 6 AM there’s like 15 hours to spend on this crisp September gem on the road by 6:15; every traffic light looks green from the helm of my machine planning out the day, jumping in headfirst without the merest plan it’s too late to rehearse if this is a quiz, the only question is, what do i do first on Saturday morning? Berlin Turnpike, half-past six; every day should be like this cross another off the list 7:20—grab a joe should be grand, but i don’t know there’s a stricture in my throat finally around 10, the city comes alive bolts up out of bed; can’t believe the time from Lamentation Hill, all’s not yet fulfilled i reason with my mind, saying, can’t you see? i’m telling me: every week, everything’s alright (repeat)

what are you thinking now? are you thinking of how we could spend the day when our time here is done? when we’re out in the sun? when we’ve slipped into something more comfortable? my feet want to be on the ground; my mind’s already out and wandering around (repeat) what are you thinking now? are you thinking of how we could spend the day when our time here is done? when we’re out in the sun? when we’ve slipped into something more comfortable? it’s Sunday morning; the day is still dawning the sunshine is calling you out (repeat)

rainbow fish, unicorns; somewhere a voice is singing flying cars, falling snow, faraway bells are ringing this is your co-pilot speaking: upon the flight deck, all’s clear just waiting for our push-back clearance and as soon as our pilot is here, we can go i don’t like Monday anymore i don’t like Monday anymore that’s what the snooze machine is for i don’t like Monday anymore you’ve got to get yourself in motion; you’ve got to get your ass in gear we’ve got to fly across this ocean i’ve made myself clear but all that i hear is excuses i don’t like Monday anymore i don’t like Monday anymore that’s what the time machine is for i don’t like Monday anymore close your eyes, back to sleep, pay no attention to them back to sleep; your eyelids are getting heavy

out of the shadows and off to the races should be easy but it ain’t like the guy who’s got to paint the Great Wall of China on a daily basis or sometimes like swimming in sand: oxygen is running low someone offers their backhoe, but no, you dig your own hole it’s so hard, sometimes, to be among people it’s so hard, sometimes, not to despair but i’m trying hard to care i didn’t make Monday, and next thing i knew it was the next afternoon it was never opportune to take up the struggle i left the original in the machine before it went out for repair i was hoping we could spare the awkward questions and the stares my entire life was based on this true story must you publicly count the silverware? still i’m trying hard to care—

there’s a pretty stoner standing on the corner of midnight she’s a thousand styles away from this disco scene unlike the other four, she ain’t the girl next door; you’re wrecking your brain— where’ve you seen her before? or does it just look like she’s from somewhere up north where it’s green? it’s the feeling you get that you come to regret in hindsight it’s the lengths to which you’ll go to recoup your dreams you can turn it on; you can turn it off any time that you like you can’t go wrong; it won’t be the first time a Samantha alarm goes out to the surrounding blockside; the band is gonna have to play this gig one drummer short it’s the notion you get that you won’t be alone this evening and to prove that you’re right it’s the depths to which you’ll resort you can turn it on; you can turn it off any time that you like you can’t go wrong; it won’t be like last time you can turn it on; you can turn it off any time that you like you can’t go wrong; it’s only the time of your — Tuesday afternoon: a ceiling tile’s unglued this must be her room the price i had to pay, the demons i had to obey but i’m here anyway the sun is clearin’ up my head i wonder what we said wait—am i alone in bed?

once we were true as a metronome but if you’re going rogue, i’m going home no, i’m not saying it’s just, betraying your trust waylaying our plans—but if that’s what you interpret, maybe the cure’s already at hand once we would spat like fathers and sons but compared to that, this is defcon one we’ve always been busy as Manhattan it will be a challenge to fit this spat in i’ll check my calendar so how does Saturday look? Sunday i’m booked the rest is just beyond that is guesses i see your calendar’s been gerrymandered blunter than Texas well, i guess Tuesday night’s alright for fighting (repeat)

from random data you thought i’d compute that you’re “just his tutor” and beyond that was moot you thought i would calculate his value to you and that i could subtract myself once you said we’re through i wish that were true i’ve been contemplating √2: why it’s so irrational between me and you i’ve been contemplating two take away three sorry to be negative but i couldn’t see the odd one was me how long’s Wednesday been going on? oh point Wednesday repeating along how long’s Wednesday been going on? it’s gone out of bounds helping him with homework seemed harmless at first but the lure of substitution just increased you thirst you’ve been contemplating this complex affair how to get this imaginary triangle unsnared: just remove the square how long’s Wednesday been going on? oh point Wednesday repeating along how long’s Wednesday been going on? it’s gone out of bounds how long’s Wednesday been going on? oh point Wednesday repeating along don’t pretend that i’m just a friend— to no extent a significant figure

there’s gotta be something about Thursday or at least a little wordplay, and hey, what is it the nerds say? it’s obligatory, like Tuesdays with Morrie but without the crematory let me tell you a story— but before i do, i gotta preface it ’cause when it comes to brevity, i got a deficit i was minding my manor, overseeing the peasants ‘twas a disturbance in The Force and i felt this presence: my manager said, “you’re making a new record.” i’m like “i am?” he’s like, “yo check it: “the marketing team developed a theme: see, there’s this time machine—” i say “get hinged, Charlie Sheen! “lay it on me straight or beat it! “i’ll be under new management “quicker than Donald Trump can tweet it.” he’s like, “that’s super! i can fit you in at 4:00! “let’s get to the point like a trooper “grim-faced at your door. “it’s a concept album,” he said. i groaned, “that one’s going straight to the the top of my tombstone!” “seven songs,” he continued, “one each day of the week.” that sounded oblique, but who am i to critique? can i get a receipt? “like What’s Going On?” i asked: “you mean a song cycle?” he’s, “better wear a helmet before you go-go, George Michael” i showed him the door; he’s like, “is that real oak? “i bet it comes in handy “with the pitchforks and townsfolk!” the weekenders were easy; so were Monday and Tuesday but after Wednesday the breakthroughs strayed so i needed some rhymes and i needed ‘em dope—i’m all “help me Obi-Wan, you’re my only hope...” quoth his apparition, “you unrefined hick, “surry down with a Jedi mind trick” adopting a tone to sound omniscient, i penned, “six jams will be sufficient”—and hit send they weren’t; far from being worth the effort ‘twas more embarassing than a balding 60-year-old in a Green Day sweatshirt, you know, the one with the x-eyed skull artwork? so my manager sends this email with the following words— “there’s gotta be something about Thursday on this cd, or it won’t end pleasantly; don’t make me summon the peasantry...” thus this track you’re blissing out to presently

o Jesus, not again! how come i get all the crazies? i should have called in sick; let’s get this over with well, i never thought you’d be back here in the dock but whatever; we have ways of making you talk who died and made you king? the horror! the outrageous fortune! oh! your buddy Judas called: he wants his mojo back the road to yesterday is twisted and littered with crosses it leads out to a place surprisingly like this but i have a magic bus under which i’m unafraid to throw you i wash my hands of thee; now quash this carousel my exit strategy loops back upon itself i can’t get back to Thursday (REPEAT)

it’s barely even ten and i’m back to when you on your tenspeed, neither of us breathed sentimental spider web; comfortable cocoon you made the first move, gripping my wrist, barely just a kiss once we’d eaten of the tree, the universe would be you and me the ideal dream, and the cruelest joke once i had awoken it’s barely ’17 and time’s intervened like being homesick for a home that never existed i’d all but doubted destiny thought i’d lost your frequency, but evidently our planets have crossed there’s time to be lost there’s no need to tremble now or wonder whether we’re allowed we’re gone anyhow keep the door closed, stall tomorrow Friday morning field trip; escape in an aeroship and let the time slip as we fade away in orbital decay apart with yesterday

tell me that you’re free Friday after three cause i got somethin’ up my sleeve, baby there’s something going down tomorrow calling for sunscreen and then we’ll blow this heavy scene the tension is rising but nobody knows it’s not like we’re advertising we’ve never even spoke the boss is on a conference call our options have changed the asylum’s been left in the able hands of the insane anyway, tell me that you’re free Friday after three or i’ll forever hold my peace a time bomb is ticking, but nobody knows the final scene’s been written for whom the cell tolls we tried believing we weren’t just arranging deck chairs but decency had one two many balls in the air so tell me that you’re free Friday after three but i’m not trying to make it seem easy baby pack your bags tonight and leave ‘em in your jeep and then we’ll grab them ‘fore we leave so tell me that you’re free Friday after three baby don’t make me have to plead guiltily don’t bother Working for the Weekend Don’t You Forget About Me i’m the same boy i used to be tell me that you’re free Friday after three there is no time to wait and see the mailbox has reached its quota the models all agree and basically there is no “plan B” Friday we’re cashing in our chips while they’re just coming up to grips and while they trip their whole deal’s been ransacked their reelection’s getting hacked; we’re kicking back— we’re kicking back—on rendezvous counting down ’til the whole thing reboots

Saturday night, and i’m feeling alright and then it all comes down Saturday night, and i’m feeling alright and then it all comes down to you (repeat) but can it really hurt to hope hope is a ship now caught in the grip of the whirlpool of my mind is a wild rollercoaster ride shut down for repairs (repeat) and i’m trying hard to care