With coffee stains and tired eyes the city shuffles back to life
Spectres haunted by the things they have to do by Friday.
Rolling chairs and ringing phones echo through the crowded walls
Silenced dissonance grows tacitly while voices murmur,
"Every day's the same.
Every day's the same.
Thirty years of fabric walls, cold calls, and a low-rent stall.
Every day's the same."
Afternoons are salads and a friend mocks Julie's way
Of saying 'bags' and 'borrow' and 'croissants' - a funny way of teasing.
They return to four more hours of ragged typing and a boss
Whose son does dope - "I swear that man's a fucking sociopath."
"Every day's the same.
Every day's the same.
Thirty years of fabric walls, cold calls, and a low-rent stall.
Every day's the same."
Uptown traffic rumbles to a stop.
Construction follows every block.
It fucks us over every day -
The city's way of saying,
"Get up and run while you still can.
The perfect life's around the bend,
and all you have to do is
grab your things and leave this town."
"Every day's the same.
Every day's the same.
Thirty years of fabric walls, cold calls, and a low-rent stall.
Every day's the same."
