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 wrists    time to spit back when you're spit upon    when you're left for head    time to hit the road when the road you're on had    run out of tricks    I don't want your Sundays & holidays of twelve hours straight    no pay for bloody hands    no I don't want your fucking petty wage