This isn't a real job
The lines are crossed and confused
Scope of works sometimes so vague
It shortens my poor bosses fuse.
When the job's on, the job's fukn on
We sweat bullets, amongst all the banter
Beers at the yard, lines off of tynes
And doobies to trigger the laughter.
We travel to places, serene and surreal
But also, vile, uninhabitable and ****
Our cars get a flogging, as do our livers
I don't really know, I just rocked up here.
We have seen many leave and given the flick
Jobs so *******, we didn't give a ****
Just do as we're told, take the money and fold
That's what I like about you, **** all.
Rub shoulders with corporate
Just play the fukn game
Remember old mate? What's his fukn name?
Yeah, he got fired, carry on old mate.
So we, the remaining few, represent the crew
Getting kicked out of a pub, maybe two
Sky fireworks, twerking locals and trannies
Mugs away, closest to bulls, play for serves.
As we encounter and share more scenarios
Breathe the ******* out and the good times in
Seeya on Mondee ya pregnant bitumen ****
If not, I'll see ya in the bottom of the bin.
A few in house jokes here for my fellow workers, I wrote this to recite at our up and coming Christmas show... it's not what you do, but who you work with that makes a job worthwhile.