My feet hurt from walking to work
where I get paid a cent over minimum wage;
and my back aches from sleeping poorly
on a bed where I wake sorely in the middle to late morning.

At work (shitty customer service),
always wondering whether the money's really worth it,
and it's fustrating, fustrating,
take the "R" out of words and it's
frustrating, frustrating.
Take the heart out of words and it's customer service:
repeating endlessly the same five phrases;
they all blur together, the same five faces;
work another five hours? I don't think I can face it.

And my feet hurt, walking home from work,
where I strip down, fall down, tumblr, and TV--
almost comatose, you can't say that I'm needy.
As a matter of fact, I've hardly been eating
(my sister says that I should be feeding,
but I can't afford it--my bank account's bleeding).
I hate my job but I sure as hell need it

for the punk-ass hipster band Ts;
I need that box set of DVDs
(who am I kidding, I need the Blu-rays);
and that new XBOX system video game;
I need a 12-pack of beer, but don't worry mom,
I'll get the cheap one.

And if I don't make rent,
I have a rich friend online
who can wire me cash just fine.
At least I'm pretty sure
(I've never asked him before).
I'm pretty confident
that I'll make rent anyway
(I'll have the money any day now)--

so what do you say?
I'll renew my WoW subscription
and my medical prescription
for those ADD drugs that you said that I needed
when I was failing in school.

That's cool, right?
I'll be fine?

I just need more time.

Maybe in a thousand years of lead insides
and heavy limbs and deadened eyes
you'll wake up and want to do shit;
or wake up and want to nuke it;
but brother, you've got time.
Time to get better or time to get worse;
time is a blessing and time is a curse;
and brother, you've got it.

Maybe time will sit like a ten tonne brick
on your back and crack your spine,
or maybe you'll be fine,
but brother, you've got time.

Maybe time will drag like a parachute bag,
will lag like a flagging horse;
maybe time will fly by sky high, parachute-less,
and drag you to death much quicker than you'd like;
maybe time will sigh as it passes by;
but whether or not you care
whether time is here or there
it will always come and go,
it will always be near.

And maybe in a year (though it'll feel like longer)
you will wake up feeling rested, you will wake up feeling stronger,
and you'll jump upon its back as it travels to the future--
but who am I kidding.
I'm just bullshitting.

Time will always be a villain, it will always laugh at you,
as you struggle every minute, bleeding every second,
to keep your head, in sanity, away from time's insanity--
it's mocking, swearing, laughing, jawing, calling you to
truly answer tormenting with slave labour.

Working later. Sleeping poorer.
Time belabours, never favours anyone.

But you've got it.

Brother, you've got time.

Maybe in a thousand years of lead insides
and heavy limbs and deadened eyes,
time will call me home, apologize.

Maybe.