A Week Of Fighting

Monday cleared his throat so that he could speak
'I'm tired of being seen as the start of the week.
Everyone hates me because I bring school
And work and various chores to do.
Why can't I be you?' He asked Tuesday
'Graceful and never termed as Doomsday?
Nobody minds when you come along,
Another day closer to Saturday is their song.'
'Really? You'd rather be me?' She cried.
My day's rubbish, fair-faced child.
People are already tired after your depressing start,
By the time they come to me they don't have the heart.
I'd much rather be Wednesday, the half-way line,
From there it's quite an easy ride.'
'Oh don't talk to me!' Wednesday proclaimed.
'My day's a travesty, a crying shame.
Something always goes wrong with two days to go
On my day there's always a tale of woe.
I'd much rather be Thursday, she ain't got it tough
Although, I'd just ruin Thursday. It'd be my luck.'
'Shut up Wednesday, you gloomy old twit.'
Scolded Thursday as she pleaded her bit.
'My day's so confusing, I don't really know
Why by the end of the week I've still got far to go!
Can someone explain why on Friday Eve
I've still got miles to cover, I get no relief?'
Friday turned up, a smirk on his face.
'I could give you relief, if that's the case.'
With a wink he carried on, shimmying up beside Thursday.
'Everyone knows I'm generous, especially to the ladies.'
'Oh you make me sick!' His brother Saturday butted in.
'You're a shameful creature, it's quite a sin.
You've never worked a day in your life!
How do you expect to find a wife?
I work my fingers to the bone
And you never hear me moan.
You all think I'm fun, a party I'm giving,
But Saturday works hard for a living.
I wouldn't want my place, or my brother's
He's a lying cad and I'm good for nothing other
Than slaving away with a pint at my close,
So you go home drunk with a bloody nose.'
That just left Sunday, sitting quietly alone,
Looking up at the clouds while the other days moaned.
They watched until she turned to their gaze.
'Who me?' She asked, as pulled from a daze.
'I guess it's not that bad, I'm bonny, lithe and gay,
But I always have to be happy, a worship day.
If anything I'd rather be Monday I guess,
No-one expects you to be lively, like a little rest.'
So with that the days all grumbled away
An realised they couldn't change Time's ways.
They should be happy with what they'd got
Because the grass wasn't greener in any other lot.