Sunday (The completely non-Bowie related version)

Sunday.
Is like waiting at a bus stop,
In a cheap blue raincoat,
Wanting to be somewhere else.

Sunday.
Is like an empty pint glass,
When you stare through the gloopy remnant,
And realise that it's finished.

Sunday
Is constant cups of tea,
Ink stained fingers
And tired eyes.

Sunday,
Is worrying about tomorrow,
Not living for today,
And wishing for something different.

"Well I'm a common working man, with a half of bitter, bread and jam and if it pleases me I'll put one on you man... when the copper fades away."