(In Remembrance Of The) 40-Hour Week Songtext
Mm, yeah
When you're dead-broke, pushin' pallets
In the dusty aisles of a cinder block tomb
'Til your back is stove up, your coughs are black
And your thoughts are frayed
You can call on the Magic City outlaws
Drop-forged in this smog-choked valley
Who scrapped with the Big Mules and the gun thugs and the scabs
For their honor and their share of pay
Oh, children, in the concrete and pines
Workin' with our hands and on our feet
Oh, children, holdin' that holy old line
In remembrance of the forty-hour week
When you're rent-strapped, threadin' symbols
Through the pale rows of a flickerin' screen
'Til your wrists are trashed, your mind is static
And your eyes are stung
You can call on the Etowah outlaws
Who worked and spun their fingers raw, boy
Who walked out of red-brick caves along the fallin' waters
And into the light of a brand new day
Oh, children, in the concrete and pines
Workin' with our hands and on our feet
Oh, children, holdin' that holy old line
In remembrance of the forty-hour week
In remembrance of the forty-hour week
Seems like lately, we get up
To go to work, get ready for work
We head to work and we work
'Til we get off work, then we take it to the house from work
Hit the kitchen and we get to work, we talk about work
We worry about work, we dream about it
When you're dog-sick, snatchin' plates
From the greasy jaws of this greedy Post-Life
The quicker you rush 'em out, the quicker it gobbles 'em up
You gather what it spills
You can call on the Tallapoosa outlaws
Burnt their necks stooped to the Black Belt soil
Raised hammer and hoe to the landlords
Hollerin', "God's people shall eat of our own fields"
Shall eat of our own fields
Oh, children, in the concrete and pines
Workin' with our hands and on our feet
Oh, children, holdin' that holy old line
In remembrance of the forty-hour week
In remembrance of the forty-hour week
In remembrance of the forty-hour week
Oh
Yeah
When you're dead-broke, pushin' pallets
In the dusty aisles of a cinder block tomb
'Til your back is stove up, your coughs are black
And your thoughts are frayed
You can call on the Magic City outlaws
Drop-forged in this smog-choked valley
Who scrapped with the Big Mules and the gun thugs and the scabs
For their honor and their share of pay
Oh, children, in the concrete and pines
Workin' with our hands and on our feet
Oh, children, holdin' that holy old line
In remembrance of the forty-hour week
When you're rent-strapped, threadin' symbols
Through the pale rows of a flickerin' screen
'Til your wrists are trashed, your mind is static
And your eyes are stung
You can call on the Etowah outlaws
Who worked and spun their fingers raw, boy
Who walked out of red-brick caves along the fallin' waters
And into the light of a brand new day
Oh, children, in the concrete and pines
Workin' with our hands and on our feet
Oh, children, holdin' that holy old line
In remembrance of the forty-hour week
In remembrance of the forty-hour week
Seems like lately, we get up
To go to work, get ready for work
We head to work and we work
'Til we get off work, then we take it to the house from work
Hit the kitchen and we get to work, we talk about work
We worry about work, we dream about it
When you're dog-sick, snatchin' plates
From the greasy jaws of this greedy Post-Life
The quicker you rush 'em out, the quicker it gobbles 'em up
You gather what it spills
You can call on the Tallapoosa outlaws
Burnt their necks stooped to the Black Belt soil
Raised hammer and hoe to the landlords
Hollerin', "God's people shall eat of our own fields"
Shall eat of our own fields
Oh, children, in the concrete and pines
Workin' with our hands and on our feet
Oh, children, holdin' that holy old line
In remembrance of the forty-hour week
In remembrance of the forty-hour week
In remembrance of the forty-hour week
Oh
Yeah
