Sun Day is a simple child,
  Face new washed and shining;
In the morning prim and mild --
   Church and mid-day dining.
If, before the shadows fall,
   You should find him going
Out to romp, or play at ball --
   Well, well.  The child is growing.

Mon Day is a sulky boy.
   He frowns on work and hates it.
Tho' facing life should bring him joy,
  He ill appreciates it.
But Tues Day is a bright young man,
   Alert, well-dressed -- oh, very --
Snatching pleasure where he can,
   Giving girls "the merry."

Wednes Day, stout and middle-aged,
   Seems hard-pressed and harried;
On grave affairs is he engaged;
   And very much he's married.
He holds severe and stubborn views -
   "Young folk, sir?  Trouble breeders!"
He scans the day's financial news
  And always reads the leaders.

Thurs Day, tho' his hair be scant,
   Is bouyant, bland and jolly;
Tho' elderly, he's tolerant
   Of many a minor folly.
He owns a city business where
   He sits "in consultation";
But all his grey-haired pals declare
   That golf's his occupation.

Old Fri Day grins a toothless grin --
   A grandfather, stooped and shrunken.
His chest, his cheeks are caving in,
   His dim old eyes deep sunken.
Yet, tho' he sit and moan and mope,
   All spent and worn with working,
Oft times a cunning gleam of hope
   In his old eyes seems lurking.

In Satur Day one might expect
  To find a wreck, fast dying.
Yet here's a lusty stripling decked
   For holiday, a-crying
To merry friends, in eager tones,
   All bound for playing spaces;
Or else his favorite he 'phones
   And takes her to the races.

"Den"
Herald, 4 July 1935, p6