"Petty Wage" lyrics

I've said, and once too often
Some things I'll never say again
In streams of thoughts unbroken
I fish for a few good men

Sundays and holidays and twelve hours straight
There's no pay for bloody hands
But believe me, they pay a petty wage

My poor self-pity speaks
With sobbing and mumbled words
Strewn with the awful taste
Of bad, cowardly prose

I'd take some time to get my posture set straight
If I had the chance, I'd break
And subdue the scheming hands of fate

Wrap up your limp red mass of knuckles and fingertips
It's fighting time, time to battle with your wits
It's time to spit back when you're spit upon, when you're left for dead
It's time to hit the road when the road you're on has run out of tricks

And I don't want your Sundays and holidays of twelve hours straight
No pay for bloody hands
No, I don't want your fucking petty wage

Ah, fuck
(Fucking brilliant)