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Work seems very far away,
You've done your weekly graft.
You've had your dinner, you've had a bath,
And although you sometimes think it's daft to squander away your hard-earned dough
It's a case of escape or retreat -
And you're not about to give up when home might be in the next bar down the street.
Where a bloke tells you a story you're inclined to disbelieve,
But you listen and nod, and buy him a pint,
And let him think you're a bit naïve.
You don't ask his name,
You don't tell him yours,
You tell him you've someone important to meet
And you make your escape before he bores you to death
Heading for home in a bar down the street.
Where outside the coppers lurk,
There's trouble in the air;
There's a disco blaring, and young girls swearing -
You try to pretend you're not really there.
The hard boys' eyes scrutinise,
You've got to be quick on your feet
And when the trouble starts, you're out the door
Heading for the next bar down the street.
Where there's a band playing in a spotlit corner
But the crowd don't give a shit.
There's an awkward silence between each song,
Even though the last could be tomorrow's hit.
You try to listen but contagious derision makes you
miss
the beat
And they're just another nameless band as you head for the next bar down the street.
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