When Friday comes,
I count my thumbs
And watch the houseplants growing.
I read with hope
My horoscope
And wonder if it’s snowing.
I dust the shelf
And make myself
A giant bacon buttie.
It’s comfort food,
I must conclude,
Because there is no footie.
When Friday comes,
I sweep up crumbs
And polish all door handles.
I trim with flair
My nasal hair
And pick the wax from candles.
I fix again
The window pane
With extra-viscous putty,
But all seems crass
Because, alas,
There isn’t any footie.
When Friday comes,
I soothe my gums
But still twitch like a rabbit.
I need a fix,
My football fix
Is too much of a habit.
I clean the grate
But such is fate,
I end up charred and sooty,
But I don’t care
‘Bout blackened hair
Because there is no footie.
When Friday comes,
I work out sums
And listen to the wireless.
The quest to ease
The great disease
Of boredom has been tireless.
I swap some jokes
With other blokes,
Though most are coarse and smutty.
They leave me dumb,
My mind goes numb
Because there is no footie.
When Friday comes,
The housefly hums,
But I don’t try to chase him.
My son gives cheek,
But I can’t speak,
Nor even bear to face him.
I arch an eye
And wonder why
This chocolate spread tastes nutty,
But in the end
I can’t pretend –
My God, I miss the footie.
