| It’s all wrinkled elbow shirts and poker faces on this bus
|
| Back to a niche dug just like a ditch in this city’s weathered crust
|
| But there’s something about this city’s gray
|
| That seems to say all there is to say
|
| Riddled with regiment, vindictive intent
|
| Faking loyalty and getting paid
|
| Fuck them all
|
| Fuck them all
|
| Fuck them all
|
| Fuck them all
|
| She keeps the variety section and then gives the rest to me
|
| She says she remembers when buses were nicer
|
| «There's no dignity in plastic seats»
|
| But there’s something about the way she said
|
| «The only good boss is one that’s dead»
|
| These broad shoulders giggled all over the bus
|
| And work ethics crumbled into «them and us»
|
| Fuck them all
|
| Fuck them all
|
| Fuck them all
|
| Fuck them all
|
| And all these specters of the workplace
|
| Turned from effigy into reality
|
| And yeah I wish it was that simple
|
| To think a belly laugh is really all we need
|
| But it’s the slow decay of the day to day
|
| That says take your paycheck, accept your place and fade away
|
| But there was dignity in plastic seats that day |