Monday’s date was fair of face,
A northern accent but just a trace.
A sharpened suit and polished shoes,
But I could not see past greyish hues.
Tuesdays date was full of grace,
He wore a shirt with Belgian lace,
A dazzling smile that nearly blinded,
I was not a man, I think he minded.
Wednesdays date was full of woe,
Dressed in black from head to toe.
Tattooed arms that screamed of death,
The stench of which was on his breath.
Thursday’s date had far to go,
I think I scraped the barrel low.
Yellowed teeth and a nylon wig,
His last six months on a drilling rig.
Fridays date was loving and giving,
But still I felt a slight misgiving,
Perhaps it was the constant petting,
The rising bulge and heavy sweating.
Saturdays date worked hard for a living,
I was not proud, I was forgiving.
But when he said we’d split the bill,
I shot a look and I aimed to kill.
Sunday came and I recalled each day,
The bonny, blithe, the good and gay.
I watched a film and drank some wine,
I’d leave the hunt for some other time.