I'll Work My Fingers To The Bone

I work for that bedrock of stones to buy me only a few stale loafs I work for that paycheque I work my fingers to the bone to give my wife a home to scratch around, feeling cold I work for that paycheque that's gone even before I'm home. If there's a God of creation He's in a minority-group-of-one yet, he'll not tolerate discrimination or prejudice racism by none. So I promise him; I'll stay strong face tomorrow by the barrel of a gun I'll stay strong; just as long as we go that-extra-furlong. I'll work my fingers to the bone to give you my wife a home trying to keep you from going hungry, trying to keep you from the cold the wolfs baying on your doorstep I'll work my fingers to the bone each day just-to-sidestep away from the devil waiting outside for me-and-you, for me-and-you.