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THE WORKING MAN John 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.

    


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