SUNDAY BOOTS

[Prelude]  

Saturday nights last like leather;  

every mark holds a face.  

But Sunday I drink the water   

that washes drunkenness away.  

  

[Verse]  

I keep some water beside my bed  

so I won't have to leave my room.  

And I dream about work calling  

till its Sunday afternoon.    

They need me to sell 10 more fans  

to some dustbowl refugees.  

But they never come with a stand  

so the dust wins eventually.    

I shouldn't worry on my days off  

and Saturdays I don't.  

But Sunday is too close to Monday  

when I'm back on the road.  

  

[Chorus]  

Saturdays come and go.  

Sundays go on and on.  

By the time I can take it slow  

Saturday is gone.  

  

[Verse]  

Saturday's the best time of the year  

when I've used all my sick days.  

Then I can join my friends for a beer,  

a fire, and a Costco steak.    

At night we camp on the river,  

burning every log we can find.  

By morning we'll've cleared all the timber,  

even the cord we set aside.    

We'll warm our coffee on the ground   

and pour sugar from a boot,  

standing on an aluminum mound  

without a lighter to use.  

  

[Chorus]  

Saturdays come and go.  

Sundays go on and on.   

By the time the lighter shows,  

Saturday is gone.  

  

[Bridge]  

Saturday is so far away  

when you’re walking door to door  

and the soles of layaway boots   

don't carry you.  

In this life of debts

one day of rest

ain't long enough to remove

the work from Sunday boots.

  

[Verse]

Sunday I embalm my boots  

and cremate the laundry.  

A house filled with timers proves  

that work never dies on Sunday.    

There’s smoke coming from the back of 

my over-run dryer. 

Now all the money I've been stacking  

will be gone in an hour.    

So I'll miss another football game  

and swallow some soggy nachos.   

'Cause today I work from home,  

getting paid to be poor.  

  

[Chorus]    

Saturdays come and go.  

Sundays go on and on.  

By the time the chores are done  

the weekend is gone.    

Saturdays come and go.  

Sundays go on and on.  

By the time I get to take it slow  

Saturday is gone.  

  

[Coda]  

Saturday nights last like leather;  

every mark holds a face  

until Sunday morning comes   

and washes it away.