It's Friday, thank whatever gods you find
in this imperfect world, this fallen land,
this kingdom of the Boring and the Bland--
and let me out before I lose my mind.
I've sat here as long as I think I can;
I don't think I can sit a minute more.
My feet are both asleep, my ass is sore,
and I'm losing sensation in both my hands.
This typing-sitting-staring's for the birds--
let's frolic through the fields and shed our skins,
with forty-eight hours to indulge in sins
would leave our bosses blushing, lost for words.
Let's drink, fart, fuck, and howl at the full moon,
for Death and Monday morning come too soon.
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