We ask each other, when is Saturday
Where sleeping-in is an occupation,
Shopping lists then shopping consolation,
The week behind us, the fun here to stay.
Garden till eve, or a book that engages,
The beach, the show, street auctions, the match,
Visit family, friends on their own patch -
So the poem goes on for fifty-two pages.
Critics, they’ve seen this sort of thing before
Superciliously humph and eye-roll,
Nostalgia meets neuralgia that’s for sure,
Here short of breath and there too much to say,
All highly improbable falderol
Now Saturday’s no different to another day.
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