Sun starts low, cloudednAnd I stumble upnBarely moving in a chairn‘Till I got to gonI can’t quitnI’m stuck to this working aroundnnMany a moth saidnDo you smell something burning?nJoke of a staff chalking a linenHalf a bubble offnMy bootstraps are bustednI’m working aroundnnGive me just a couple of weeks to get sick of itnIs there some other way?nMaking my marks and cuts on a walking sticknIs there some other way?nComing off painting a wall on a holidaynCatching up on the phonenCan I catch something to pick me upnWorking aroundnnDay creeps upnAnd then a pounce and it’s overnThinking of the timenThat I took about six months offnAll I really wanted was working aroundnnGive me just a couple of weeks to get sick of itnIs there some other way?nMaking my marks and cuts on a walking sticknIs there some other way?nComing off painting a wall on a holidaynCatching up on the phonenCan I catch something to pick me upnWorking aroundn