This is the End of Solomon Grundy

Solomon Grundy - Nineteenth Century Nursery Rhyme

Listen to this poem in song format at:

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


Bound by your skeletal axis

And genetic legislation

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


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]

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