Roll Over In Your Grave Walt Whitman

© 2011 Rob Krabbe (not sure why)
Oh TUESDAY! my Tuesday,our fearful Monday done,The day had weathered every rack,the prize we sought is won;The Wednesday near, the clock I hear, the people all exulting,While follow eyes the steady time,the vessal grim and daring: Oh heart! my heart!Oh the bleeding drops of red,Where on the floor my calendar lies,Fallen cold and dead.

Oh Tuesday! my Tuesday,
rise up, hear ZZtop,
Rise up—for you—the date is flung,
for you-guitars on top;
For you bouquets and ribboned wreaths,
for you the weekends a crowding,
For you they call, the swaying audience,
their eager faces turning:Here Monday, dear weekday!
This arm beneath your head,
It's some dream that on my floor,
You've fallen cold and dead.


My Monday does not answer,
his lips are cold and pale,
My weekday does not feel my arm,
he has no pulse nor will;
The week is anchored safe and sound,its passage well underway,From day by day, the fear away,comes in with bold new days:Exult oh month, and ring the date!But I with mournful tread,Walk by Monday's charms,
Fallen cold and dead.