ON A SUNDAY
Mike Harding

"What do you think you're doing here?"
Said the brass-faced man in the blood-red suit
And the medal ribbons hanging from his 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."

CHORUS: 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 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 live here,"
Said the brick-faced man with the cast-iron hands
And the weight of plans and profits on his shoulders.
"We'll have to move you out of here
And bulldoze your dreams
And pull down 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 in his shoulder.
"Get up and 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."

Cheers
Mark