Quota Is Eternal

It’s Monday, the calendar is empty,
I need to answer messages sent me,
No consolation could ever tempt me
To see scheduling without enmity.
It’s Tuesday, and my coworkers rally
And fill up these slots without me,
Each counts for their personal tally,
And I assist as I can quite happily.
It’s Wednesday, and I’m no longer tired,
Able to focus on tasks that require
My attention, and there is no dire
Cause for a calendar fire.
It’s Thursday, and the weekend is looming,
An eventual stress that starts blooming,
And I don’t mean to be dooming-and-glooming,
But that weekend is going to screw me.
It’s Friday, and I have lots of meetings,
Time taken from typical proceedings,
So between all these catch-ups and greetings
My serenity is woefully fleeting.

The weekend is here; the days are infernal.
There is no forgetting the quota’s eternal.
And when Sunday closes, there’s nothing that curdles
My blood more than Monday’s return.

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