Rising on a saturday is worst than death,
And more scary than a mysterious dream,
When much duties lie on my laze bones,
Around the pinacles of my bosom.
I detest saturday morning a lot,
As it makes me earnestly weep,
As like an elephant I have to work,
Unlike other days of the week.
Not to round, jump or play,
To plough and fell large trees,
And areange outraging textiles,
Like the suffering of a camel.
I hate saturday a lot,
My laze needs it out my bosom.