Working Lyrics
| Song | Working |
| Artist | Deadly Gentlemen |
| Album | Roll Me, Tumble Me |
| Download | Image LRC TXT |
| Working every single week in this city, | |
| But daydreaming about better days and blackbirds. | |
| Time goes slowly somehow even backwards. | |
| This clock just goes so slowly, | |
| I think it's busted I don't trust it, | |
| I've been dying since I got here, | |
| What do I do all day? | |
| Sometimes it is not clear. | |
| But work's not bad and work's not hard, | |
| I don't kill chickens or break rocks in a yard, | |
| Work's not bad and it's not that tough, | |
| And I'm not breaking my neck, or my back, or my balls in the rough. | |
| Middle of the workday, | |
| I take a look in the mirror, | |
| Sweet Jesus, I think I see a gray hair, | |
| And can anybody please explain, | |
| Why when the work's all done, | |
| You've still got to stay there? | |
| Just staring out the window, | |
| At all kinds of people, | |
| Having fun in the sun on the sidewalk, | |
| Who are they? Why aren't they working? | |
| I'm here every single day, all day, | |
| Just working and working and working. | |
| ‘Cause this particular week, | |
| Work's a bit of a wankfest, | |
| Saying you're welcome a lot, | |
| And coming up thankless, | |
| I just went out on a Tuesday, | |
| I'm starting to wish that I drank less. | |
| But work's not bad and work's not hard, | |
| I don't kill chickens or break rocks in a yard, | |
| Work's not bad and it's not that tough, | |
| And I'm not breaking my neck, or my back, or my balls in the rough. | |
| Please don't let me tell you this is some kind of a tragedy, | |
| But I swear to God, | |
| This clock is trying to trick me, | |
| ‘Cause how can a workday be so long and severe, | |
| When the rest of the day blows by so quickly? | |
| Working every single week in this city, | |
| But daydreaming about better days and blackbirds, | |
| Time goes slowly somehow even backwards. | |
| But work's not bad and work's not hard, | |
| I don't kill chickens or break rocks in a yard, | |
| Work's not bad and it pays alright, | |
| And I can still go out drinking on Tuesday night, | |
| Still make it to work in the morning with that feeling in my head, | |
| And my throat all scratchy and my face a little bit red, | |
| But I know that the day does end and I will feel fine, | |
| And I'm not sleeping alone or waiting in a welfare line. |
| Working every single week in this city, | |
| But daydreaming about better days and blackbirds. | |
| Time goes slowly somehow even backwards. | |
| This clock just goes so slowly, | |
| I think it' s busted I don' t trust it, | |
| I' ve been dying since I got here, | |
| What do I do all day? | |
| Sometimes it is not clear. | |
| But work' s not bad and work' s not hard, | |
| I don' t kill chickens or break rocks in a yard, | |
| Work' s not bad and it' s not that tough, | |
| And I' m not breaking my neck, or my back, or my balls in the rough. | |
| Middle of the workday, | |
| I take a look in the mirror, | |
| Sweet Jesus, I think I see a gray hair, | |
| And can anybody please explain, | |
| Why when the work' s all done, | |
| You' ve still got to stay there? | |
| Just staring out the window, | |
| At all kinds of people, | |
| Having fun in the sun on the sidewalk, | |
| Who are they? Why aren' t they working? | |
| I' m here every single day, all day, | |
| Just working and working and working. | |
| ' Cause this particular week, | |
| Work' s a bit of a wankfest, | |
| Saying you' re welcome a lot, | |
| And coming up thankless, | |
| I just went out on a Tuesday, | |
| I' m starting to wish that I drank less. | |
| But work' s not bad and work' s not hard, | |
| I don' t kill chickens or break rocks in a yard, | |
| Work' s not bad and it' s not that tough, | |
| And I' m not breaking my neck, or my back, or my balls in the rough. | |
| Please don' t let me tell you this is some kind of a tragedy, | |
| But I swear to God, | |
| This clock is trying to trick me, | |
| ' Cause how can a workday be so long and severe, | |
| When the rest of the day blows by so quickly? | |
| Working every single week in this city, | |
| But daydreaming about better days and blackbirds, | |
| Time goes slowly somehow even backwards. | |
| But work' s not bad and work' s not hard, | |
| I don' t kill chickens or break rocks in a yard, | |
| Work' s not bad and it pays alright, | |
| And I can still go out drinking on Tuesday night, | |
| Still make it to work in the morning with that feeling in my head, | |
| And my throat all scratchy and my face a little bit red, | |
| But I know that the day does end and I will feel fine, | |
| And I' m not sleeping alone or waiting in a welfare line. |
| Working every single week in this city, | |
| But daydreaming about better days and blackbirds. | |
| Time goes slowly somehow even backwards. | |
| This clock just goes so slowly, | |
| I think it' s busted I don' t trust it, | |
| I' ve been dying since I got here, | |
| What do I do all day? | |
| Sometimes it is not clear. | |
| But work' s not bad and work' s not hard, | |
| I don' t kill chickens or break rocks in a yard, | |
| Work' s not bad and it' s not that tough, | |
| And I' m not breaking my neck, or my back, or my balls in the rough. | |
| Middle of the workday, | |
| I take a look in the mirror, | |
| Sweet Jesus, I think I see a gray hair, | |
| And can anybody please explain, | |
| Why when the work' s all done, | |
| You' ve still got to stay there? | |
| Just staring out the window, | |
| At all kinds of people, | |
| Having fun in the sun on the sidewalk, | |
| Who are they? Why aren' t they working? | |
| I' m here every single day, all day, | |
| Just working and working and working. | |
| ' Cause this particular week, | |
| Work' s a bit of a wankfest, | |
| Saying you' re welcome a lot, | |
| And coming up thankless, | |
| I just went out on a Tuesday, | |
| I' m starting to wish that I drank less. | |
| But work' s not bad and work' s not hard, | |
| I don' t kill chickens or break rocks in a yard, | |
| Work' s not bad and it' s not that tough, | |
| And I' m not breaking my neck, or my back, or my balls in the rough. | |
| Please don' t let me tell you this is some kind of a tragedy, | |
| But I swear to God, | |
| This clock is trying to trick me, | |
| ' Cause how can a workday be so long and severe, | |
| When the rest of the day blows by so quickly? | |
| Working every single week in this city, | |
| But daydreaming about better days and blackbirds, | |
| Time goes slowly somehow even backwards. | |
| But work' s not bad and work' s not hard, | |
| I don' t kill chickens or break rocks in a yard, | |
| Work' s not bad and it pays alright, | |
| And I can still go out drinking on Tuesday night, | |
| Still make it to work in the morning with that feeling in my head, | |
| And my throat all scratchy and my face a little bit red, | |
| But I know that the day does end and I will feel fine, | |
| And I' m not sleeping alone or waiting in a welfare line. |
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