What’s the point of Tuesday?

You’re neither the beginning, nor the end, of the week.
And you in’t in middle either.
There you stand, between Monday and Wednesday, 

Without so much as a E = mc2.
Squeezed between Monday’s depression
And Wednesday’s equilibrium.
Just as Tuesday is between Monday and Wednesday,
So Thursday is between Wednesday and Friday
Yet Thursday glimmers so slightly and lightly
From Saturday’s coming glow.
When Tuesday come, it come weakly, not uniquely.

Thursday is as yellow as a yellow thing... O’What?!

Tuesday, on the contrary, has the hue of a pale arse 

(Though without the brains).
Tuesday’s a tear stain on a discarded underpant.
It’s a crushed bollock on a haggard dwarf.
It’s not-I, not-you, not-Barney McGrew
It ain’t my east, my west, my bestest vest.

Tuesday, Tuesday, bloody Tuesday
A place that’s nondescript - and that’s hyperbole.
Often it don’t register at all.
It come and go - I’m sure you know.

So what point, Tuesday, are you?
What, exactly, do you do?
Do you sweat for Charity?
Or let us laze within you?
How many badges you got?
You ever been in Vogue?
Tuesday oh Tuesday... Ah! Tuesday.

No. Tuesday: you’re a dead-day.
Without character. Without charm.
Neither here nor there - nor anywhere.
Nowt but a tasteless filling
Between start and middle of the week.
Friday’s distant relation
And weekend’s memory.

Tuesday, your existence appalls me.

File Tuesday under ‘Nondescript’.
For that be what it is, untothee like.