Текст: Frank Turner. Poetry Of The Deed. Sunday Nights.

Sunday nights are slow surrender.
It never lasts and we never learn.
We can still make this one to remember.
It?s Sunday night and we?ve time to burn.
Tomorrow morning can wait its turn.
So charge your glasses and raise a toast to the memory gained,
to the sleep that we lost.
Another weekend run to ground,
another passing coat of red painted across our town.
Work is shallow, cuts are deep, but who would waste two days respite?
You can?t catch up on sleep.
So here we are, last chance saloon,
the ticking clock and a slow defeat, it?ll all be over soon.
Once more friends unto the breach, bleary-eyed,
the stuff of dreams always slips out of reach.
Defiance dressed in crumpled clothes,
protest played out with a headache, starting late and going slow.
So though we know we have to be here,
we have tasted freer air, so we don?t have to care.
All our days will fade away in hazy nights and clear mistakes.
So here?s to us and needs that must.
Let?s raise a toast for one last boast
because it?s Sunday night and we?ve time to burn.
Tomorrow morning can wait its turn