A song about the daily grind
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We'll be at work on Monday
trudging through the rain
Bodies aching, breaking over again
Nowhere to party Tuesday
nowhere to catch a smile
Everywhere is early closing, seventies style
We could be dead by Wednesday
we're running out of time
Our contract says we're running way past our prime
Pay your respects on Thursday
as we lie in state
Pay homage to the dream of a new leisure age
Looking forward to the weekend
good times are coming soon
We're waving at you, floating round the moon
Soon every day is Sunday
waking in the afternoon
You'll see our shadows in the light of the moon
There are no angels
There are no angels here
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