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