On Sundays when the dust seemed to float like flies around the windows
And the a month of dirt would stick to your feet when you walked
then the drums and horns would play, and our butts would be smacked
Lightly, with humor, and we’d stalk to the garage with shoulders slumped
For our parents would decide that today was cleaning day.
Paul would sing to us as we vacuumed, and Ringo would bang the drum
As we swept the gathering crumbs on the kitchen floor, dancing and head-bobbing
(Only when we knew Mom weren’t watching) and skimping on the hallway
Cobwebs. And by days end, though tired and dry and weekend robbed,
On Sundays when the albums played, we knew everything would be put right.