Phone & Rock - Sunday lyrics

Sundays come i don't know what i've done My friends all hate me and i know why Cause i'm a mongrel A grubber A f**in' piss head But you're an a**hole A dunce hat A dead sh** drop kick Sunday, i feel so f**in' scummy c*nt Old mate, let's get some f**in' beer and that Ciggies, and 3/4 pants Because my mum still dresses me And i'm turning 33 [Chorus] On sunday, my head is swollen eyes are black I'm coughing up my lungs i start to hack This binge has gone too long to ever turn out well for you My bowels are leaking poo and wee And all signs point to misery cause [Chorus] Sunday, it feels like i've been torn apart Old mate, can I get some mercy man Ciggies, i need a few packs at least Because my mum she dresses me My middle name is misery [Chorus] Sunday, there's yack all in the sink again Old mate, can ya pa** the buey man Right now, i could pack it to the sky Cause i need some therapy And then my mum who dresses me I wake up, sh** eating grin is plastered on my face Not long 'til it's gone though cause we trashed the f**ing place Say good morning to old girl, she tells me to eat sh** I dont know just why she hates me, but These pants mum bought are sik [Chorus] A dead set grubby c*nt