Vārdi: Swingin' Utters. More Scared. Petty Wage.

I've said, and once too often, some things I'll never say again
In streams of thoughts unbroken I fish for a few good men
Sundays and holidays and twelve hours straight
No pay for bloody hands, and believe me they pay a petty wage
My poor self-pity speaks with sobbing, mumbled words
Strewn with the awful taste of bad, cowardly prose
I'd take some time to get my posture set straight
If I had the chance I'd break and subdue the scheming hands of fate
Wrap up your limp red mass of knuckles and fingertips
It's fighting time and time to battle with your wits
Time to spit back when you're spit upon when you're left for dead
Time to hit the road when the road you're on has run out of tricks
I don't want your sundays and holidays of twelve hours straight
No pay for bloody hands, no I don't want your fucking petty wage