I work in dark factories,
A cog in a big wheel,
Driving grey satanic mills
And weaving sad stories.
And faceless masters,
Oh, they pay me plenty:
Crumbs from their luncheon bags
Harsh wine from bottles of empties.
(Chorus:)
«A stitch in time saves nine,»
Sang cock-robin from the wall.
«It’s an early bird catches the worm;
Show a little pride before you fall.»
So I flew to the south sun
With birds of a feather,
To drink in the warm nights
And tell of fine weather.
(Repeat Chorus)
Listen all you young folk:
Your lives on the time-table.
Clocking on twenty-one;
Fly while you’re able.
(Repeat Chorus)
(Repeat Chorus)