The rest of our lives on holiday.

I'm so sick, sick, sick and tired of working just to be retired; I don't want to get that far, I don't want your company car. Promotions ain't my thing, name badges are not interesting; it's much easier for me see, to stay at home with Richard and Judy. Away, away, away from here; away, away, away from here. I'm fed up of early mornings, wake up calls are getting boring round here; feet dragging on the pavement, the same people with the same arrangement. Irony can be quite funny, you making other people money; my working day has just begunits not exactly what I would call fun. I want to wake up in the afternoon with daytime, TV and my favourite tune; 'cos it is much easier for me see, to stay at home with Richard and Judy. Away, away, away from here; away, away, away, away, from. Saturday is your only highlight, when you go out and live the highlife; meeting up with other people, your interaction with the weak and feable. At least when all is said and done, you wouldn't be the only one to be a slave to the modern wage; your crappy weekend is your only escape.

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Por suerte (y por desgracia, también, por los motivos y tooodas las consecuencias a corto o largo plazo) no va a haber que esperar tanto para las (más-o-menos) merecidas vacaciones.