| I climb the wooden stairs to my apartment in the city*
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| With dark brown molding and white walls.
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| I search my bank account for traces of the forty-hour weeks
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| I’ve been working since last fall.
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| Give me a list of alarms to set,
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| I’ll tuck myself into bed
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| And hope that I can sleep in on the weekends.
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| Another slave to a paycheck,
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| A silent servant to my monthly rent,
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| What’s keeping me from sinking in the deep end?
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| Now there’s something to be said for a firm lack of common sense,
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| 'Cause god knows getting in the van isn’t paying rent.
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| And now my older friends are all getting married with kids,
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| And I’m just stoked to play a basement.
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| Give me a list of alarms to set,
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| I’ll tuck myself into bed
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| and hope that I can sleep in on the weekends.
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| Another slave to a paycheck,
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| a silent servant to my monthly rent,
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| what’s keeping me from sinking in the deep end?
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| And all I can do is stall
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| while the plans we make
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| become grit in the storm drain’s teeth,
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| and the rain is getting harder every week.
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| Now the plans we make
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| become grit in the storm drain’s teeth,
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| and the puddles are growing deeper at my feet.
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| Give me a list of alarms to set,
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| I’ll tuck myself into bed
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| and hope that I can sleep in on the weekends.
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| Another slave to a paycheck,
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| a silent servant to my monthly rent,
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| I’m sinking, I’m sinking
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| I’m sinking, I’m sinking, I’m saying I’m sinking again |