The Sky doesn’t care it’s Sunday,
It doesn’t matter at all,
Each day you worry, there’s no hurry,
When the rain begins to fall.
The clouds don’t care what day it is,
Whatever you call it now,
It could be Wittzleday. Or Crème Brûlée,
But it’ll rain anyhow.
The sun goes up, the sun goes down,
That’s what it likes to do,
So don’t pout, if the thunder shouts,
It’s not trying to be rude.
Each day is just a day,
if you have no calendar or watch,
The ants that crawl don’t care at all,
They’re not expecting much.
Count the seasons if you want to,
They number two or four,
But off in space, the earth’s in a race,
To get back where it was before.
There’s been days and days ‘fore time was time,
It’s only Man that gives them names,
We find we must though we’re cosmic dust,
There’s really no one to blame.
But this Sunday’s yours, my beamish boy,
There’s lights and kites and s’mores,
Today’s birthday is your special day,
We’ll just enjoy your party indoors.