You could bring clear and warming light,
Or gray skies chilling to the bone,
Or brightest moon or cloudy night --
It matters not how you atone.
Surprising treasures you could mete,
A thousand coffers quickly fill,
Promotions, raises, checks, and yet
The people loathe and scorn you still.
Some time off work -- a holiday --
May be your act of last resort.
But though we rest the day away
You always seem to come up short.
I know you try, but 'tis your luck
That you, oh Monday, simply suck.