| Early in the misty, misty morning
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| Heading for another freeway jam
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| Sleepy eyed and shivering
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| Waking up and wishing
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| It was Sunday. |
| I wish it was Sunday
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| On the radio they’re playing love songs
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| Songs that make me want to turn around
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| Factory gates are up ahead
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| I wish that I was home in bed
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| With you, my love, back home with you, my love
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| But I work to make a living
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| And I work without a break
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| And I work when I am sleeping
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| And I work when I’m awake
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| Yes, and I’d like to leave the city
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| But I can’t afford the move
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| And I think I’m goin' under
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| With those way down low down smokey factory blues
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| I was born a lover, not a worker
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| Money doesn’t smell like sweet perfume
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| Some of us feel out of place
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| With engine oil upon our face
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| Believe me, you’d better believe me And I work to make a living
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| And I work without a break
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| And I work when I am sleeping
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| And I work when I’m awake
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| Yes, and I’d like to leave the city
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| But I can’t afford the move
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| And I think I’m goin' under
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| With those way down low down smokey factory blues
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| Yes, and I work to make a living
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| And I work without a break
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| And I work when I am sleeping
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| And I work when I’m awake
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| Yes, and I’d like to leave the city… |