Tired and drained by the work soaked week
Minutes drip by like used coffee grounds
What sort of reward is a little pork in the beans
When there's no flavor left in the brown stained hours
Scrub those small potatoes shiny white
Rub off the dirty red skins of yesterday's toil
The two A.M., three A.M. blues leave on the light
Where nothing good grows in the sandy worn out soil
Birds sing cheerfully on a bright Sunday morn
Hours before the first church bells ring
Sweating, regretting the day that was born
From the empty womb of night, I dare not sing
Serrated edge of sunlight slices jagged through the curtain
Peeling back my bloodshot eyes of sorrow
Tears and fears have gathered knowing nothing that is certain
Other than the labor of tomorrow
Aching muscles and broken dreams leave valiant men no hope
No metal in their souls there left to test
Staggering alone with injuries nearing the end of my rope
Hanging there and choking on the hallowed day of rest
