Deliver the paper deliver the porn
deliver the baker deliver the morn
A quiverin jibberin shiverin mass
of sunshine and good times that I have to pass
on the way to my job on the way to my work
on the way to that slobberin hoverin jerk
whos my boss today
whos my boss to stay
whos my supervisor when Im in my grave
a slave on the run still under the gun
of Attila the Hun with a cinnamon bun
I dont know son, was there somethin I missed
I dont think Fritz Lang was a fantasist
Metropolis exists is this
if you listen close you can hear the piss
(chorus)
Every days another loss
need the pay so please the boss
through the sludge they mingle by the mile
every worker looks ahead
ah the kiddies must be fed
so they trudge along in single file
joo ming boohaaooo
and you turn and you toil
and you burn and you boil
in the tourniquet coil
of the white folks soil
spoilin with a malaise worse than disses or dope
wakin up in a haze
with your wishes and hopes
and your poor little dreams
all wrapped up in burlap
that you carry around
for a sniff or a snack
or a taste in your haste
to get right back on track
outta whack with the pack
but acquiring the knack
of ignoring the rustle
that quietly seethes
the hustle, the buy-it
the air that you breathe
