sunday slips away from me, and it's the return to the tyranny of timeclocks, bosses, and machinery.
i learn nothing new. i say nothing nice. i eat nothing healthy. i wish mom had told me that a paycheck won't make me wealthy, and it's whisky that keeps the bill collectors away from me.
that pie in the sky is going to stay up there pretty fucking high, and forty hours weekly won't make you wise.
my life is slipping away through the cracks in the factory floor, but when they ask if i want overtime, i say "more, more, more!"