Work Song

Deliver the paper deliver the porn

deliver the baker deliver the morn

A quiverin' jibberin' shiverin' mass

of sunshine and good times that I have to pass

on the way to my job on the way to my work

on the way to that slobberin' hoverin' jerk

who's my boss today

who's my boss to stay

who's my supervisor when I'm in my grave

a slave on the run still under the gun

of Attila the Hun with a cinnamon bun

I don't know son, was there somethin' I missed

I don't think Fritz Lang was a fantasist

Metropolis exists is this

if you listen close you can hear the piss



(chorus)

Every day's another loss

need the pay so please the boss

through the sludge they mingle by the mile

every worker looks ahead

ah the kiddies must be fed

so they trudge along in single file



joo ming boohaaooo



and you turn and you toil

and you burn and you boil

in the tourniquet coil

of the white folks' soil

spoilin' with a malaise worse than disses or dope

wakin' up in a haze

with your wishes and hopes

and your poor little dreams

all wrapped up in burlap

that you carry around

for a sniff or a snack

or a taste in your haste

to get right back on track

outta whack with the pack

but acquiring the knack

of ignoring the rustle

that quietly seethes

the hustle, the buy-it

the air that you breathe



(chorus)



joo ming boohaaooo






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