Clock hits five—oh, look alive!
Time to chug, time to dive,
time to drink my last two neurons dead
and dance on the grave of the week I survived.

Boss said "grind," I said "blind,"
sold my soul for nickels and dimes,
but hey—it’s Friday, let’s pretend
that life’s not built on corporate crimes.

The club’s a zoo, the floor’s all glue,
the shots are fire, my liver’s *******,
but better that than sober doom
I’ll take a hangover over servitude.

So praise the Lord, or cash or fraud,
or alcohol or pain ignored,
'cause Monday’s death is Friday’s birth
one more week closer to the dirt.