In the heart of Sunday we slumber,
After toiling through the week,
The worker seeks a tranquil bed,
Where dreams are soft and sweet.

Beneath the eucalyptus branches,
With a breeze that whispers ease,
Lies a soul in peaceful respite,
From the toil that doesn’t cease.

No more the grind of labour,
No more the boss’s frown,
From Saturday’s eve, the worker rests,
Away from busy town.

So let the cares of Monday,
Be banished for a while,
In the quiet hush of Sunday’s sleep,
We find rest and a tender smile.