Monday morning I learnt to play the organ
and in the afternoon caught bull-frogs in the sink.
In the evening I wrote the biograph of a Gorgon
and spent the night spraying bright stars pink.
Tuesday I built a personal plutonium reactor
and Wednesday morning hosed the flat.
Wednesday afternoon I made a million, like Max Factor,
and dug up Regent’s Park for Roman artefacts.
Wednesday night I got to work again within;
I memorised the songs of William Blake.
Thursday I tattooed a cuckoo, with a heated pin,
upon my chest – and then a snake.
Thursday night was altogether strange.
I flew about the streets of London in a cage.
Friday would take a month to log and rearrange
in words that you could follow from my page.
Saturday I bought two dozen butcher’s shops
and made a fleshy mountain out of steaks and chops.
Sunday, as is ordained, I didn’t work:
one day a week, at least, it’s good to go beserk!