On a Sunday

Mike Harding

“What do you think you’re doing here?”

Said the brass faced man in the blood red suit,

With the medal ribbons hanging at the shoulder,

“It’s not my fault but you can’t stand here,

‘Cause it contravenes the by-laws and it’s against the regulations

I don’t know why, I’ve just got a job to do.”

For there’s no smiling, no smiling on a Monday,

No laughing, no laughing on a Tuesday,

No singing on a Wednesday, no dancing on a Thursday,

No breathing on a Friday, no living on a Saturday,

And on Sunday, yes on Sunday, no loving at all.

“Little boy, you can’t fish here”

Said the plus four legs in the harris-tweed voice,

To the small boy standing by the river,

“Don’t you know that this river runs,

By courtesy of Lord Muckybrass, and God, and all his angels,

Don’t look like that, or I’ll confiscate your smile.”

“I’m sorry but you can’t stay here,”

Said the brick faced man with the cast iron hands,

And the weight of plans and profits on his shoulders,

“We’ve got to move you out of here,

And tear down your dreams, and bulldoze your hopes,

And leave your memories smouldering in the rubble.”

“We can’t have lovers lying here”

Said the clay faced man with the crow black eyes,

And the shotgun nestled on his shoulder,

“Get up, get dressed and get out of here,

‘Cause you’ll scandalise the crops, and you’ll frighten all the cows,

And besides, it’s free, and no-one makes a profit.”