Sunday always meant to me/as a child a brilliant spree/of funny paper illustrations/in such gaudy variations/as Prince Valiant and B.C./Nothing like it on TV/Peanuts and old Andy Capp/Innocence and wicked snap/Hagar and poor Beetle Bailey/The Sunday colors blazed so gayly/But nowadays online cartoons/on Sunday are the merest ruins/No Ben-Day dots, just pastel shades/it's like a circus sans parades/I read instead the Op-Ed page/and really start to feel my age.
Cafe owners feel the bite/of restrictions getting tight/Most will close, but some rebel/serving heedless clientele/Though the food may taste like nectar/rest'raunts are the biggest vector/so if you go out to eat/prepare your Maker soon to meet.
If you want to take the bus/you may be inclined to cuss/at the lack of public transit/from the way your city plans it/Budgets have been slashed so deep/it is faster just to creep/on your tootsies and not wait/hours for a ride that's late.
Electric cars mean guillotine/for them as run on gasoline/Assembly also is a cinch/putting workers in a pinch/Unions sure face abrogation/with the coming automation/Blue collars become quite sparse/as they're thrown out on their arse.
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