Sunday nights are slow surrender.
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It never lasts and we never learn.
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We can still make this one to remember.
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It's Sunday night and we've time to burn.
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Tomorrow morning can wait its turn.
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So charge your glasses and raise a toast to the memory gained,
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to the sleep that we lost.
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Another weekend run to ground,
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another passing coat of red painted across our town.
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Work is shallow, cuts are deep, but who would waste two days respite?
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You can't catch up on sleep.
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So here we are, last chance saloon,
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the ticking clock and a slow defeat, it'll all be over soon.
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Once more friends unto the breach, bleary-eyed,
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the stuff of dreams always slips out of reach.
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Defiance dressed in crumpled clothes,
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protest played out with a headache, starting late and going slow.
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So though we know we have to be here,
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we have tasted freer air, so we don't have to care.
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All our days will fade away in hazy nights and clear mistakes.
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So here's to us and needs that must.
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Let's raise a toast for one last boast
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because it's Sunday night and we've time to burn.
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Tomorrow morning can wait its turn.
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Sunday Nights
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| Frank Turner |
