Solomon Grundy

Solomon Grundy… born on a Monday.
Christened… on Tuesday.
Married… on Wednesday.
Took ill… on Thursday.
Worse… on Friday.
Died… on Saturday.
Buried… on Sunday.
That… was the end… of Solomon Grundy.

He woke beneath the soil again,
A breathless man among the rain.
His hands were cold, his heart was fire,
The grave could not contain desire.

The days repeat, the world decays,
A life reborn through endless haze.

Born on a Monday — still he’s the same,
Died on a Saturday — whisper his name.
From ashes and shadows he’s crawling away,
Solomon Grundy — still here today.

The clocks are bleeding hours of pain,
He walks the line ’tween loss and gain.
A thousand lives, one face remains,
A ghost inside his mortal chains.

He dreams in grey, the sun won’t rise,
Each week he lives, each week he dies.

Born on a Monday — still he’s the same,
Died on a Saturday — whisper his name.
From ashes and shadows he’s crawling away,
Solomon Grundy — still here today.

Seven days of life and death,
One last scream, one final breath.
He breaks the ground, defies the fate,
The cycle bends — it’s not too late.

Born on a Monday — cursed by the chain,
Died on a Saturday — rose again.
No grave can hold him, no prayer can save,
Solomon Grundy — beyond the grave.

Solomon Grundy,
Buried on Sunday,
But that was never the end.