The weekend has come at last.
Two days of perfect bliss
With beer and football games galore.
Who could ever want for more?
But hanging over this peaceful scene
Is a specter quite obscene.
Now, well you might be somewhat curious
At what would make me so furious
On this my only days of rest
When all all should be the very best.
My team is winning, I should be glad,
Instead I'm boiling, hopping mad.
For just as sure as death and taxes,
More bothersome than phone or faxes.
Just when I have settled down
A terrible messenger comes around.
A reminder from my past.
My wife with her 'honey-do' list.