What’s the Point of Tuesday?

It’s neither the beginning, nor the end, of the week. And it in’t in middle as well. There it stand, between Monday and Wednesday, Without so much as a E = mc2. Tightly squeezed between Monday’s depression And Wednesday’s warm equilibrium. Just as Tuesday’s between Monday and Wednesday, So Thursday’s between Wednesday and Friday. Yet Thursday reflects the glimmer (so slightly and lightly) From Saturday’s coming glow. But when Tuesday come, it come weakly, not uniquely.

Thursday is as yellow as a yellow thing… O’What?! Tuesday, on the contrarily, has the hue of a pale arse (Though without the brains). Tuesday’s a tear stain on a discarded underpant. It’s a crushed bollock on a haggard dwarf. It’s not-I, not-you, not-Barney McGrew It ain’t my east, my west, my bestest vest.

Tuesday, Tuesday, bloody Tuesday! A place nosomuch nondescript. Often it don’t register at all. It come and go — I’m sure you know.

So what point, Tuesday, are you? What, exactly, do you do? Do you sweat for sweet Charity? Or let us laze within you? How many badges you got? You ever been in Vogue? Tuesday, oh Tuesday… Ah! Tuesday.

No. Tuesday: you’re a dead-day. Without character. Without charm. Neither here, there , nor anywhere. Nowt but a tasteless filling Between start and middle of the week. Friday’s distant relation And weekend’s memory.

Tuesday; your existence appalls me.