If every year had an extra day,
my life would have been played
to a different tune,
I’d have journeyed in space,
and walked on the moon,
or at least put up that shelf
in the spare room.

If every year had an extra day
my life would have come on
in leaps and bounds,
answers to Ebola and cancer
I’d have found
in pristine lab-coated white
not drab dressing-gowned brown.

If every year had an extra day
I really think
I could have been someone,
with bestselling novels,
songs at number one,
or remembered more often
which day Bin Day was on.

If every year had an extra day
my life would have turned out
a different way,
football grounds would fill
just to watch me play,
I would sculpt works of beauty
out of blood, sweat and clay,

and perhaps, just perhaps,
you would have wanted to stay.