It would be awful to die on a Saturday.
There’s always sport on tele and
probably the mortician and her husband have gone to the races.
It would be awful to die on a Sunday.
Half the shops are shut and
probably the undertaker’s taken the day off and gone off.
It would be awful to die on a Monday.
The week’s just waking up and
probably the embalmer had to dash to town for more eye shadow.
It would be awful to die on a Tuesday.
It’s such a humdrum sort of day and
probably the sexton’s busy burying the crowd that croaked over the weekend.
It would be awful to die on a Wednesday.
It’s slap-bang midweek and
probably the hearse is out of action with a flat tire or a burned-out clutch.
It would be awful to die on a Thursday.
We always get take-a-ways then and
probably the morgue is chockablock with yesterday’s bodies.
It would be awful to die on a Friday.
It’s the day before the weekend and
probably the resident organist is having a few drinks to celebrate a profitable week.
As you can see, no day’s good for dying,
which is probably why I’m not that much looking forward to it.