[intro]

[verse 1]
I see them counting hours on a clock that only subtracts,
piling Monday’s dread like unread, heavy facts.
They speak of weekends in a voice reserved for distant shores,
while ignoring all the treasure hidden in their weekday chores.
A coffee steam becomes a prayer, a commute a chance to dream,
but they’ve already decided it’s a stagnant, endless stream.
They’ve drawn a line between the living and the time they have to spend,
and in that simple separation, is where all the sorrows begin.

[chorus]
They're looking all forwards to the weekend,
but I just want my Monday, Tuesday, Wednesday, Thursday,
every day a happy day,
like it is my first day, last day, next day, birthday.
Monday does the sun shine bright,
like it does on Friday, all days light day, my day.
Saturday, Sunday, happy day, fun day,
Just count your blessings, before they're passing.

[verse 2]
For me, the light that cuts across the office floor at three
holds the same infinity as the wide and open sea.
The rhythm of the printer, the soft click of a lock,
are notes within a symphony that never really stops.
I’ve learned to hold the moments, not as tasks to be survived,
but as fragile, breathing wonders to be gently recognized.
This isn’t blind optimism, it’s a practice, slow and deep,
a promise to the present that I’m committed now to keep.

[bridge]
And if a day feels heavy, like a sky about to break,
I don’t just wait for Friday for the heaviness to shake.
I find the tiny fracture where the gratitude shines through,
and I widen it with kindness for the me that’s feeling blue.
Because the sun that loves a Saturday, it’s the same sun here and now,
it’s just a choice of whether to receive it, and remember how.

[chorus]
They're looking all forwards to the weekend,
but I just want my Monday, Tuesday, Wednesday, Thursday,
every day a happy day,
like it is my first day, last day, next day, birthday.
Monday does the sun shine bright,
like it does on Friday, all days light day, my day.
Saturday, Sunday, happy day, fun day,
Just count your blessings, before they're passing.

[verse 3]
So Wednesday is a canvas, not a hurdle to be cleared,
painted with the quiet sounds that often go unheard.
The hum of expectation for a joy you have to make,
not one you have to wait for, for heaven’s sake.
The stranger’s fleeting smile becomes a sacred, shared exchange,
a reminder that our inner worlds are never truly strange.
This daily, soft creation is the truest kind of wealth,
found in noticing the silence, and in caring for your health.

[chorus]
They're looking all forwards to the weekend,
but I just want my Monday, Tuesday, Wednesday, Thursday,
every day a happy day,
like it is my first day, last day, next day, birthday.
Monday does the sun shine bright,
like it does on Friday, all days light day, my day.
Saturday, Sunday, happy day, fun day,
Just count your blessings, before they're passing.

[verse 4]
And when the Friday evening finally melts into the night,
I feel no different victory, no more entitled light.
The freedom was not earned, it was merely recognized,
it was there in Tuesday’s patience, in Thursday’s clear-eyed sighs.
So let them have their frantic race towards a finishing line,
my universe is expanding in the seconds that are mine.
A birthday isn’t yearly, it’s a breath you choose to take,
a celebration of the simple fact that you’re awake.

[chorus]
They're looking all forwards to the weekend,
but I just want my Monday, Tuesday, Wednesday, Thursday,
every day a happy day,
like it is my first day, last day, next day, birthday.
Monday does the sun shine bright,
like it does on Friday, all days light day, my day.
Saturday, Sunday, happy day, fun day,
Just count your blessings, before they're passing.

[final chorus]
They're looking all forwards to the weekend,
but I just want my Monday, Tuesday, Wednesday, Thursday,
every day a happy day,
like it is my first day, last day, next day, birthday.
Monday does the sun shine bright,
like it does on Friday, all days light day, my day.
Saturday, Sunday, happy day, fun day,
Just count your blessings… just count them slow…
before they're passing.

[outro]