We work on the highway.
We just stand there talking while work should be going on.
Boss says, "I'll dock your pay,
Or maybe I'll fire you and then you will all be gone!
You're work-shirking louts. You're work-shirking louts!"

We hear what he's saying,
So we pick our shovels up and dig with all our might.
When he's gone we're playing
Games on laptops and submitting songs to amiright.
We're work-shirking louts. We're work-shirking louts!

The days seem so short when we make rhymes--
No cussing there, my writing friends!
By the boss we're caught in idle crime,
So then he tells us, once again"

"You work on the highway;
Using state time to write tunes for amiright is wrong.
Though--great job on 'My Way'--
I've always hated that shameless and insipid song.

OK. Send it out.
After that, clear out!"