Sundays are too reliable.
With or without fail, they come almost once a week.
(Well, it's but a year till Christmas!)
Sundays are like the bore who knocks at the door when you're shitting,
Or on the phone to De Niro.
Sunday is a death-day of boredom's thousand cuts.
After which death is still not whole.
Sunday comes and leaves it no-mark.
Then goes on its was again.
Only it always returns to make it no-mark.