You get out of bed abour half-past seven
Your days are hell so sleeping's heaven
Unfold the paper over yesterday's ,ea;
Good morning Mr Howard, how do you feel?
Another batch of figures says everything's fine
But that's not what they are saying on the dole-form line
Pocketful of silver like a pocket full of rocks
You stagger down the road to the telephone box
"That job's gone" says the person when you ring
"You're the thirteenth today" as he drops the thing
Postman at the gate just to make you feel better
Another half a dozen no-job letters
The debts pile up and your confidence goes
And everyone in the family knows
They sympathise because they feel they should
Seven days a week and the money's no good
So you wander around the house for hours at a time
You're looking for a riff and you're looking for a rhyme
Another cup of coffee, no sugar or cream
While the sun goes down on your Australian dream
The lady next door's screaming at her kids
Because the dole didn't come buth the landlord did
You spend a half a day a week at the C.E.S.
You get a flint-eyed stare from behind the desk
I haven't got a job and you think it's a sin
Don't you read the papers mate, where have you been?
"They've shut down the shop and they've stopped our pay."
Isn't it time we became annoyed, there are two generations unemployed.