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Cylons hate Mondays, it’s plain to see
They rise up, robotic, grumpy as can be
The alarm goes off, they groan and moan
Another week of work, they’re all alone
They trudge to their jobs, with heavy hearts
No matter how hard they try, they can’t seem to start
The day off right, it’s always the same
They just can’t shake that Monday shame
But why do they hate it so, this day of the week?
Is it the tasks they must complete, the meetings they must seek?
Or is it something deeper, a longing unfulfilled
For a life that’s more than work, a sense of being killed
Perhaps it’s a sense of loss, a dream that’s slipped away
A life that’s not their own, a future filled with dismay
But whatever the reason, one thing is for sure
Cylons hate Mondays, that much is pure
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