Nicola Wood: Sunday

I really don’t like Sunday, it’s a land that time forgot.
In ‘Twenty-Four Hours Later’, a film that has no plot
I’m a zombie rising slowly, who sinks without a trace.
Sunday’s embalmed, there’s no expression on his face.

I really don’t want Sunday, the off switch in my head,
I’m a hibernating tortoise who just can’t get out of bed.
He wraps himself around me, like a giant anaconda,
a toothless kind of 'Jaws’ with a yawn to drag me under.

I really don’t need Sunday, he’s our heavy medication,
amnesia and chloroform, that’s knocking out the nation.
He wears ‘Blue Funk’ by Lethargy, a somnolent aroma;
we’re sirens in our dressing gowns, then patients in a coma.

I’m not a fan of Sunday, it’s a home for the depressed
where you can view the corpse that’s finally at rest.
He’s monotonal monochrome, in just one shade of grey -
I eat baked beans in unwashed jeans until he goes away.

Sunday’s just a vampire who sucks out all my juices
on TV-By-The Sofa, where my plans turn to excuses.
He’s really a magician, now he’s going, going, gone . . .
Sunday’s just a stripper, in the end there’s nothing on!