It’s Friday here in my little house,
A day for wine and song.
The week is dead and out of site,
I swap my steel caps for my thongs.
A healthy stubble begins to form,
across my grinning weekend face,
there'll be no early wake up call,
For that god damn awful place.
My jobs ok, as far as it goes.
My mates are O.K. too.
It’s just the thought of being there,
It’s the time in our lives we lose.
I guess I shouldn't complain so much,
a Jobs a Job I guess,
But life would be so much easier,
without all this friggin stress.
If there wasn't a need for all that green,
the cash, the dough, the bread.
We'd all be living like hippies, growing
dreadlocks from our heads.
But here we are, we work for life,
Instead of liven to work.
Seems like a chain-round my neck some days,
Draggin my soul down to the dirt.
If only I could escape the trap,
put down tools, get up and go.
Go grab the misses by the arm and say,
lets pack up and hit the road.
But in some far off place a voice calls me, ,
my Dad's stern, wise old tone.
He curses me for all these thoughts,
Says Ya-being a lazy so and so.
The country wasn't built on sleep,
on relax lets have a beer.
It was built on work, and sacrifice,
and all those things so dear.
So get off ya- lazy ass he'd say.
Mow the yard, kick the ball with the kids.
Stop thinking bout ya self so much.
And be proud of ya life, as it is.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.