Suicidal Sundays

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Marx

Karl Marx (German: [maʁks]; 5 May 1818 – 14 March 1883) was a German-born philosopher, economist, political theorist, historian, sociologist, journalist, and revolutionary socialist. His best-known works are the 1848 pamphlet The Communist Manifesto (with Friedrich Engels) and the three-volume Das Kapital (1867–1894); the latter employs his theory of historical materialism in an analysis of capitalism, representing his greatest intellectual achievement. Marx's ideas, theories, and their subsequent development, collectively known as Marxism, have exerted enormous influence on modern intellectual, economic, and political history. Born in Trier in the Kingdom of Prussia, German Confederation, Marx studied at the universities of Bonn, Berlin, and Jena, and receiv… more »

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Aw mate, what happened last night? 
Nothing but a blur, events of a past life 
My head's fucking tanning and I feel like shite 
And to make matters worse I'm at work tonight 
Mike, alpha, romeo, x-ray 
Why do I get pissed when I'm at work the next day? 
Hungover to f*ck, sickness and a chest ache 
Gouge out for the rest day would be the best way 
This 12 hour shift'll just make me suicidal 
Can't work on a Sunday, says so in the Bible 
I could kill for a biff and a cup of tea 
But I'm skint as can be, so I beg my Mother please 
Do us a borrow so I can get a fry up 
Reevaluate my life, convince myself to wise up 
Begging for a day off 'cause my graft'd just be sloppy 
Plus I'm dying for a bacon butty and a fat shotty 
Besides, I'm wobbling, I can barely stand 
Appearance worse than a tramp, Welly stamp on my hand 
I believe the French call it mal aux cheveux 
Consequences of poor decisions made the night before 
Ring Kieren and Cory to establish the story 
With all the details gory, guarantee they won't bore me 
As per, I made an embarrassment of myself 
Double vodka redbull, harassment of my health 

I shoulda gone to work and got my debt paid off 
If I carry on like this I'll probably get laid off 
Payday blackouts, every single penny gone 
My heads in bits, lips wrapped around a bong 
'Cause I grafted Carol's daughter, like Steve Stoute 
First thought on my mind is get your weed out 
But I'm slow as f*ck, take the piss, I get sick quick 
Whiteyed in the toilet and it's pure fucking liquid 
All on my shoes, pre-Monday blues 
When I see the crew, it feels like watching the news 
Gas about the night before, shit that I can't recall 
Memories restored, and of course I'm not appalled 
No surprise running round with my shirt off 
If I was suicidal then, pft, now I'm worse off 
Cringey texts don't wanna read, man I hate this 
You might get your face licked must think I'm a rapist 
The worst part is it's not even a shock 
It's a regular occurrence I make myself look a cock 
The only saving grace my mates all feel the pain 
It's torture every weekend but we all stay the same 
I think I'm the worst 'cause when the drink does its magic 
I become another person and he's pure fucking tragic 
Not one girl I'm not tryna shaft 
Everyone gets a turn, call me Grandmaster Graft 
Nah, Callum'll have to come to the rescue 
I just get on their nerves like phone calls from Res Q 
George has nutted someone, Paddy's got kicked out 
Wiggy's sparked up inside, Carrick's got his dick out 
Ben and Steeley are steamed, I'm nowhere to be seen 
On a one man mission to explore the whole scene 
I wake and bake in the morning to escape the horror 
That I'm skint, tragic and got work tomorrow

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