Deliver the paper deliver the porn

deliver the baker deliver the morn

A quiverin jibberin shiverin mass

of sunshine and good times that I have to pass

on the way to my job on the way to my work

on the way to that slobberin hoverin jerk

whos my boss today

whos my boss to stay

whos my supervisor when Im in my grave

a slave on the run still under the gun

of Attila the Hun with a cinnamon bun

I dont know son, was there somethin I missed

I dont think Fritz Lang was a fantasist

Metropolis exists is this

if you listen close you can hear the piss



(chorus)

Every days another loss

need the pay so please the boss

through the sludge they mingle by the mile

every worker looks ahead

ah the kiddies must be fed

so they trudge along in single file



joo ming boohaaooo



and you turn and you toil

and you burn and you boil

in the tourniquet coil

of the white folks soil

spoilin with a malaise worse than disses or dope

wakin up in a haze

with your wishes and hopes

and your poor little dreams

all wrapped up in burlap

that you carry around

for a sniff or a snack

or a taste in your haste

to get right back on track

outta whack with the pack

but acquiring the knack

of ignoring the rustle

that quietly seethes

the hustle, the buy-it

the air that you breathe



(chorus)



joo ming boohaaooo