ON A SUNDAY

(by Mike Harding)

"What do you think you're doing here?"
  Said the brass-faced man 
    in the blood-red suit
  And the medal ribbons hanging 
    from his shoulder.

"It's not my fault but you can't stand here
  'Cause it contravenes the by-laws
    and it's against the regulations.
  I don't know why. I've just got a 
    job to do."

	For there's no smiling, 
	  no smiling on a Monday;
	No laughing, 
	  no laughing on a Tuesday;

	No singing on a Wednesday; 
	  no dancing on a Thursday;
	No breathing on a Friday; 
	  no living on Saturday;

	And on Sunday, 
	  yes, on Sunday, 
	    no loving at all.

"Little boy, you can't fish here,"
  Said the plus-four legs 
    in the Harris-tweed voice
  To the small boy standing 
    by the river.

"Don't you know that this river runs
  By courtesy of Lord Muckybrass
    and God and all his angels?
  Don't look like that or I'll confis-
    -cate your smile."

	For there's no smiling ...
	
"I'm sorry but you can't live here,"
  Said the brick-faced man 
    with the cast-iron hands
  And the weight of plans and profits 
    on his shoulders.

"We'll have to move you out of here
  And bulldoze your dreams
    and pull down your hopes
  And leave your memories smouldering 
    in the rubble."

	For there's no smiling ...
	
"We can't have lovers lying here,"
  Said the clay-faced man 
    with the crow-black eyes
  And the shotgun nestled 
    in his shoulder.

"Get up and get dressed and get out of here
  'Cause you'll scandalise the crops
    and you'll frighten all the cows
  And besides it's free and no one 
    makes a profit."

	For there's no smiling ...

recording: Mike Harding (2011) [YouTube]