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Deliver the paper deliver the porn |
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Deliver the baker deliver the morn |
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A quiverin' jibberin' shiverin' mass |
|
Of sunshine and good times that I have to pass |
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On the way to my job on the way to my work |
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On the way to that slobberin' hoverin' jerk |
|
Who's my boss today |
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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 |
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I don't know son, was there somethin' I missed |
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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 |
