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Now man is is born to trouble |
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Sure as sparks to heaven fly |
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So said the man, sat all alone |
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In the corner of my eye |
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I said: "Why the long face, why so sad? |
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Things cannot be so bad!" |
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He said: "My aching bones tell of trouble on the road |
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And you can't make light of this load" |
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He said: "You can't make light of this load" |
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Now just don't get me started on work, trust or money |
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There's not enough hours in the day |
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In a land where nothing works except the answering machines |
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You have to watch what you say |
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All the high hopes of Thatcher's breed |
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Lie crushed beneath some 80's creed |
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Well Moaning Minnies we may be, just don't let us explode |
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"You can't make light of this load" they said |
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"You can't make light of this load" |
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Seems that grumbling is a privilege, a pleasure and a pastime |
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For those approaching "middle rage" |
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"The burden fits the back" they say, and I know I've got mine |
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Thank heavens for the minimum wage! |
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"Things can only get better" they cried, |
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But over health and work and money they lied |
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Well their patron saint is Meldew and complaining is the mode |
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"You can't make light of this load" they said |
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"You can't make light of this load" |
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"Oh, don't the days seems lank and long |
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When all goes right and none goes wrong |
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So avoid the sad old so-and-so with his sorry episode |
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Who can't make light of his load, lads? |
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Who can't make light of his load?" |