Mondays

On Mondays I’m allergic, it turns out,
I wake up in a proper, foul old mood,
A mood that doesn’t like what I’m about,
And urges me to blurt out something crude.
I still resist, and try to do my work,
A stormy cloud hangs overhead instead,
It lingers in the mirror with a smirk,
God knows why I crawled out of my warm bed.
And now the verse itself is quite annoyed,
It carries snark I’ve often seen before,
A state that would have baffled Sigmund Freud,
I’ll shove the bloody thing inside a drawer.
This Monday verse has gone completely wrong,
At least I haven’t turned it into song.