THE WORKING MAN

THE WORKING MAN
(J.C. Fogerty)
Well, I was born on a Sunday; On Thursday I had me a job.
I was born on a Sunday; By Thursday I was workin' out on the job.
I ain't never had no day off since I learned right from wrong.
Mama said I was bad, I did something to her head.
Mama said I was bad, I did something to her head.
And poppa threw me out, ooh, said, "I gotta earn my own way."
CHORUS:
I ain't never been in trouble;
I ain't got the time.
I don't mess around with magic, child.
What I got is mine.
Whatever you say, Lord, well, that's what I'm gonna do.
Whatever you say, well, that's what I'm gonna do.
'Cause I'm the Working Man, Lord, and I do the job for you.
CHORUS
Every Friday, well, that's when I get paid.
Don't take me on Friday, Lord, 'cause that's when I get paid.
Let me die on Saturday night, ooh, before Sunday gets my head.