Het is weekend. Draag het in je broekje.

Is it for now or for always,
The world hangs on a stalk?
Is it a trick or a trysting-place,
The woods we have found to walk?

Het is weekend. Zoet.

Home is so sad. It stays as it was left,
Shaped to the comfort of the last to go
As if to win them back. Instead, bereft
Of anyone to please, it withers so,
Having no heart to put aside the theft 

And turn again to what it started as,
A joyous shot at how things ought to be,
Long fallen wide. You can see how it was:
Look at the pictures and the cutlery.
The music in the piano stool. That vase.
Prettig weekend. En be nice.

Het is weekend. Ook voor Liz Truss.

What are days for?
Days are where we live.   
They come, they wake us   
Time and time over.
They are to be happy in:   
Where can we live but days?

Ah, solving that question
Brings the priest and the doctor   
In their long coats
Running over the fields.
Prettig weekend. En be nice .

Het is weekend. Doe doem maar niet.

Words as plain as hen-birds' wings
Do not lie,
Do not over-broider things -
Are too shy. 

Thoughts that shuffle round like pence
Through each reign,
Wear down to their simplest sense
Yet remain. 

Weeds are not supposed to grow
But by degrees
Some achieve a flower, although
No one sees.
Prettig weekend. En be nice.

Het is weekend. Was het maar weer juno.

Cut grass lies frail:
Brief is the breath
Mown stalks exhale.
Long, long the death

It dies in the white hours
Of young-leafed June
With chestnut flowers,
With hedges snowlike strewn,

White lilac bowed,
Lost lanes of Queen Anne's lace,
And that high-builded cloud
Moving at summer's pace.
Prettig weekend. En be nice.

Het is weekend. Misschien tijd om het gras eens te maaien.

The mower stalled, twice; kneeling, I found   
A hedgehog jammed up against the blades,   
Killed. It had been in the long grass.

I had seen it before, and even fed it, once.   
Now I had mauled its unobtrusive world   
Unmendably. Burial was no help:

Next morning I got up and it did not.
The first day after a death, the new absence   
Is always the same; we should be careful

Of each other, we should be kind   
While there is still time.
Prettig weekend. En be nice.

Het is weekend. Bent u al lid.

Quarterly, is it, money reproaches me:
  'Why do you let me lie here wastefully?
I am all you never had of goods and sex.
  You could get them still by writing a few cheques.'

So I look at others, what they do with theirs:
  They certainly don't keep it upstairs.
By now they've a second house and car and wife:
  Clearly money has something to do with life

—In fact, they've a lot in common, if you enquire:
  You can't put off being young until you retire,
And however you bank your screw, the money you save
  Won't in the end buy you more than a shave.

I listen to money singing. It's like looking down
  From long french windows at a provincial town,   
The slums, the canal, the churches ornate and mad
  In the evening sun. It is intensely sad.
Prettig weekend. En be nice.

Het is weekend. Hoppa. Hier is Big Phil.

Love again: wanking at ten past three   
(Surely he’s taken her home by now?),
The bedroom hot as a bakery,
The drink gone dead, without showing how   
To meet tomorrow, and afterwards,
And the usual pain, like dysentery.

Someone else feeling her breasts and cunt,   
Someone else drowned in that lash-wide stare,   
And me supposed to be ignorant,
Or find it funny, or not to care,
Even ... but why put it into words?
Isolate rather this element

That spreads through other lives like a tree   
And sways them on in a sort of sense   
And say why it never worked for me.   
Something to do with violence
A long way back, and wrong rewards,   
And arrogant eternity.
Prettig weekend. En be nice.