This is the End of Solomon Grundy

Solomon Grundy - Nineteenth Century Nursery Rhyme


Listen to this poem in song format at:

http://youtu.be/lx6O9udo84M



This is the End of S Grundy


Seven days with Solomon Grundy,

Til we dug his grave on a Sunday


And I grew up thinking that he lived a week


I wake up to his birth on a Monday,

And walk the week for Solomon Grundy


White noise can’t take him away,

I see him every day


In maternity wards at hospitals,

Funeral parlors and wedding chapels


I see him


A short life marked by landmark beacons

and agitation…


Well, I was born on a Sunday,

And bred to the tune of Solomon Grundy


I am the same as he in his nineteenth century


Grundy


Bound by your skeletal axis

And genetic legislation


You didn’t write the rules - You are the hapless illustration


Grundy


Solomon Grundy,

Born on a Monday,

Christened on Tuesday,

Married on Wednesday,

Took ill on Thursday,

Grew worse on Friday,

Died on Saturday,

Buried on Sunday.

This is the end

Of Solomon Grundy.[1]


Creative Commons Licence ACKNOWLEDGMENT:

http://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-sa/3.0/

http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Wikipedia:Text_of_Creative_Commons_Attribution-ShareAlike_3.0_Unported_License

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