Sunday nights are slow surrender.
They'll never last and we'll never learn.
We can still make this one to remember.
It's Sunday night and we've time to burn.
And tomorrow morning can wait its turn.
Charge your glasses, raise a toast,
To the memory game,
To the sleep that we've lost,
Another weekend ran to ground,
Another passing coat of red,
Painted across our town,
Work is shallow, cutting deep.
Who would waste two days respite,
Can't catch up on sleep,
So here we are, last chance to live,
Ticking clock and slow defeat.
E (I think)
Sunday nights are slow surrender.
They'll never last and we'll never learn.
We can still make this one to remember.
It's Sunday night and we've time to burn.
And tomorrow morning can wait its turn.
So once more friends unto the breach,
Bleary eyed, the stuff of dreams
Always slips out of reach,
Defiance dressed up,
Crumpled clothes,
Protest played out with a headache,
Starting late, but going slow,
Don't we know we have to be there,
We have tasted freer air,
We don't have to care.
Sunday nights are slow surrender.
They'll never last and we'll never learn.
We can still make this one to remember.
It's Sunday night and we've time to burn.
And tomorrow morning can wait its turn.
All our days,
Will fade away,
And hazy nights,
And clear mistakes.
So here's to us,
Our needs that much,
Let's raise a toast,
For one last boast, cos
It's Sunday night and we've time to burn,
And tomorrow morning can wait its turn.