Sunday Morning

I'm so tired of being poor
I can't take it anymore
I can work and sling a wrench
Work a shut-down in a pinch
Folks that live down by the lake
They all give and they don't take
They work their fingers to the bone
And in the evenings sit alone
Sunday monrning comes without a word
Called up Monday but still they haven't heard
And I swear Michael is a turd