Petty Wage - Swingin Utters

I’ve said, and once too often, some things I’d 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